Poet: Gardener Of Epitaphs.

Every View Of The World That Becomes Extinct, Every Culture That Disappears, Diminishes A Possibility Of Life

A Flower Without A Stem, Is Beauty Waiting To Die. A Heart Without Love, Is A Tear Waiting To Cry.

It May Seem Paradoxical To Say That We Have Been Expelled From The Present, But It Is A Feeling We Have All Had At Some Moment. Some Of Us Experienced It First As A Condemnation, Later Transformed Into Consciousness And Action. The Search For The Present Is Neither The Pursuit Of An Earthly Paradise Nor That Of A Timeless Eternity: It Is The Search For A Real Reality.

My Body, Plowed By Your Body, Will Turn Into A Field Where One Is Sown And A Hundred Reaped.

The Beloved Is Already In Our Being, As Thirst And "otherness." Being Is Eroticism. Inspiration Is That Strange Voice That Takes Man Out Of Himself To Be Every Thing That He Is, Everything That He Desires; Another Body, Another Being. Beyond, Outside Of Me, In The Green And Gold Thicket, Among The Tremulous Branches, Sings The Unknown. It Calls To Me.