Things Which Do Not Grow And Change

Here I Am, Where I Ought To Be. A Writer Must Have A Place Where He Or She Feels This, The Place To Love And Be Irritated With.

I Think One Of The Reasons To Be Here On Earth Is To Finally Be Who We Are, At All Times - To Know And Be Predictable To Ourselves.

You See I Thought Love Got Easier Over The Years So It Didn't Hurt So Bad When It Hurt, Or Feel So Good When It Felt Good. I Thought It Smoothed Out And Old People Hardly Noticed It. I Thought It Curled Up And Died, I Guess. Now I Saw It Rear Up Like A Whip And Lash.

We Are Conjured Voiceless Out Of Nothing And Must Return To An Unknowing State. What Happens In Between Is An Uncontrolled Dance, And What We Ask For In Love Is No More Than A Momentary Chance To Get The Steps Right, To Move In Harmony Until The Music Stops.

He Despised His Body For Its Boring Hungers, Reflex Anger; Its Petty, Obliterating Rage. But Now He'd Become Detached. He Regarded His Body With A Tender Regret. It Was The Thing His Spirit Had To Haul.