Always Our Wars Have Been Our Confessions

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

I Remember Mother Saying : Inventors Are Like Poets, A Trashy Lot

The Sources Of Poetry Are In The Spirit Seeking Completeness.

A Work Of Art Is One Through Which The Consciousness Of The Artist Is Able To Give Its Emotions To Anyone Who Is Prepared To Receive Them.

Exchange Is Creation.