...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.

Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

The word is the making of the world

Like the Sweetness of Gardenias Mother, you died 15 years ago. pain, a rapier, cut until, finally, there was just peace like the sweetness of gardenias in the crystal vase on your yellow kitchen table. so fragrant. your voice lingers in my ear reminding, scolding, guiding a pleasant mantra of tenderness, magic words that move my palms, your palms. together we are molding, helping, creating. in the mirror I see your eyes, your beautiful brown circles looking back, so radiant. "don't forget me," you whispered the day you died. I won't.

A violent order is disorder; and a great disorder is an order. These two things are one.

I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.