Every Artist Creates With Open Eyes What

In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman Peppery As Curry, A Yam Of A Woman Of Butter And Brass.

Remember That Every Son Had A Mother Whose Beloved Son He Was, And Every Woman Had A Mother Whose Beloved Son She Wasn't.

We Lie In Each Other's Arms Eyes Shut And Fingers Open And All The Colors Of The World Pass Through Our Bodies Like Strings Of Fire.

Every Baby Born Unloved, Unwanted, Is A Bill That Will Come Due In Twenty Years With Interest, An Anger That Must Find A Target, A Pain That Will Beget Pain. A Decade Downstream A Child Screams, A Woman Falls, A Synagogue Is Torched, A Firing Squad Is Summoned, A Button Is Pushed And The World Burns.

I Don't Find That Writing About Parts Of My Life Had Much Effect Except In Some Cases To Improve My Memory. To Get Into Parts Of The Past I Want To Recall Very Vividly, I Use A Form Of Directed Meditation.