From 1968 On, I Was Pretty Much

The Night ... It Is Filled With Bestial Watchmen, Trammeling The Extremities And The Interstices Of The Timeless City, Portents Fallen, Constellated Deities Plummeting In Ash And Smoke, Roaming The Apocryphal Cities, The Cities Of Speculation And Reconstituted Disorder, Of Insemination And Incipience, Swept Round With The Dark.

Human Beings Being What They Are, Order Spreads, Given Half A Chance, Almost As Fast As Confusion.

Since I Spent Eighteen Years Of My Life As A Child, And Nine Years Of That Life As A Pretty Sexually Active Gay Child, My Complaint Against The Current Attitudes Is That They Work Mightily To Silence The Voices Of Children First And Secondarily Ignore What Adults Have To Say Who Have Been Through These Situations. One Size Fits All Is Never The Way To Handle Any Situation With A Human Dimension. Many, Many Children-and I Was One Of Them-are Desperate To Establish Some Sort Of Sexual Relation With An Older And Even Adult Figure.

There Is A Hollow, Holey Cylinder Running From Hilt To Point In My Machete. When I Blow Across The Mouthpiece In The Handle, I Make Music With My Blade. When All The Holes Are Covered, The Sound Is Sad, As Rough As Rough Can Be And Be Called Smooth. When All The Holes Are Open, The Sound Pipes About, Bringing To The Eye Flakes Of Sun On Water, Crushed Metal. There Are Twenty Holes. And Since I've Been Playing Music, I've Been Called All Different Kinds Of Fool - More Times Than Lobey, Which Is My Name.

It's Frightening For One Artist To See Another One, Any Other One Turn Away From Art.