In a world gushing blood day and night, you never stop mopping up pain.

Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.

A world without poetry and art would be too much like one without birds or flowers: bearable but a lot less enjoyable.

When a reader enters the pages of a book of poetry, he or she enters a world where dreams transform the past into knowledge made applicable to the present, and where visions shape the present into extraordinary possibilities for the future.

What is this slow blue dream of living, and this fevered death by dreaming?

This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.

Time (again, Time) like the soul, wears many faces, many bodies and climates and attitudes. The past is one face, the present a second and the future yet another.

At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.

With my ninth mind I resurrect my firstand dance slow to the music of my soul made new.