Love Is The Garment Of Knowledge.

Art Is The Reasoned Derangement Of The Senses.

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

The Free, Creative, Loving People Who Shine So Brightly In My Memory Of Studios And Coffee Shops Have Become Models For A Huge Section Of The Population. If They In Turn Can Just Stay Alive In The Face Of Power And Terror, They May Become The Decisive Section.

Love Is The Garment Of Knowledge.

The Holiness Of The Real Is Always There, Accessible In Total Immanence. The Nodes Of Transcendence Coagulate In You, The Experiencer, And In The Other, The Lover.