Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.

The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss... it is inevitable as life.

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

What beauty there is in words; what a lurking curious charm in the sound some words.

When I give, I give myself.