The Past Is What Makes Now Like

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.

Linguistics Is Very Much A Science. It's A Human Science, One Of The Human Sciences. And It's One Of The More Interesting Human Sciences.

I Suspect Most Of Life Takes Place In The Interstices Of What's Already Been Articulated.

Power Is All. Another Falsification; I Do Not Tell How I Gain Or Maintain It. I Only Record The Ginger Stroll Through The Vaguely Fetid Garden Of Its Rewards.

I Took My Writing Seriously, And It Seemed To Pay Off.