Poetry is paying attention to life when all the world seems asleep to its beauties and truths.

December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.

When we perfect 3-D copiers and they reproduce tissue, we'll have a million Marilyns walking around with no souls.

I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.

Here's what I've learned - people will hurt you, but you don't have to respond: Not every mean comment or cruel act deserves to be noticed.

And not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again... for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.