Myths Are Stories About People Who Become

Death . . . And Now You Are Here To Fight For This Woman. You Know Her Promise Is Given. She Has To Die Or Her Husband Won't Go Free. Apollo Relax, I'm Not Breaking Any Laws. Death Why The Bow, If You're Breaking No Laws? Apollo I Always Carry A Bow, It's My Trademark.

Blessed Be They Whose Lives Do Not Taste Of Evilbut If Some God Shakes Your Houseruin Arrivesruin Does Not Leaveit Comes Tolling Over The Generationsit Comes Rolling The Black Night Salt Up From The Ocean Floorand All Your Thrashed Coasts Groan

Eros Is An Issue Of Boundaries. He Exists Because Certain Boundaries Do. In The Interval Between Reach And Grasp, Between Glance And Counterglance, Between ‘i Love You’ And ‘i Love You Too,’ The Absent Presence Of Desire Comes Alive. But The Boundaries Of Time And Glance And I Love You Are Only Aftershocks Of The Main, Inevitable Boundary That Creates Eros: The Boundary Of Flesh And Self Between You And Me. And It Is Only, Suddenly, At The Moment When I Would Dissolve That Boundary, I Realize I Never Can.

Prowling The Meanings Of A Word, Prowling The History Of A Person, No Use Expecting A Flood Of Light. Human Words Have No Main Switch. But All Those Little Kidnaps In The Dark. And Then The Luminous, Big, Shivering, Discandied, Unrepentant, Barking Web Of Them That Hangs In Your Mind When You Turn Back To The Page You Were Trying To Translate.

There Is Something About The Way That Greek Poets, Say Aeschylus, Use Metaphor That Really Attracts Me. I Don't Think I Can Imitate It, But There's A Density To It That I Think I'm Always Trying To Push Towards In English.