Lying on stained, wretched sheets with a bleeding virgin We could plan a murder Or start a religion.

I can kind of envision one person with a lot of machines, tapes, and electronic set-ups...singi ng or speaking and using machines.

The world becomes an apparently infinite, yet possibly finite, card game. Image combinations, permutations, comprise the world game.

It's like gambling somehow. You go out for a night of drinking and you don't know where your going to end up the next day. It could work out good or it could be disastrous. It's like the throw of the dice.

The gate is straight, Deep and wide, Break on through to the other side...

I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.