Fiction Becomes Visual By Becoming Verbal

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.

The Things That Stayed Were Things That Didn't Matter Except They Stayed, Night And Day, All Seasons The Same, And Were Peaceful To A Fault And Boded No Ill But Thought Well Enough Of Themselves To Repeat Their Presences.

And I Am In Retirement From Love.

It’s Not The Word Made Flesh We Want In Writing, In Poetry And Fiction, But The Flesh Made Word