If A Poet Has A Dream, It

Every Day In The Mirror I Watch Death At Work.

All Spiritual Journeys Are Martyrdoms

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.

I Have Seafoam In My Veins, I Understand The Language Of Waves.

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.