I was born with eyes that can never close.

I believe that poets have to be inside their poems somewhere, or the poem won't work.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

In Isleta the rainbow was a crack in the universe. We saw the barest of all life that is possible. Bright horses rolled over and over the dusking sky.

Because Music is a language that lives in the spiritual realms, we can hear it, we can notate it and create it, but we cannot hold it in our hands

I have more questions than answers in this world as do most poets and writers. The field of memory we exist in is absolutely encompassing and is both a question and answer. It is memory that provides the heart with impetus, fuels the brain, and propels the corn plant from seed to fruit.

I listen to the gunfire we cannot hear, and begin this journey with the light of knowing the root of my own furious love.