... This World Gives No Room To

I Am The Androgyne, I Am The Living Mind You Fail To Describe In Your Dead Language The Lost Noun, The Verb Surviving Only In The Infinitive The Letters Of My Name Are Written Under The Lids Of The Newborn Child

We See Daily That Our Lives Are Terrible And Little, Without Continuity, Buyable And Salable At Any Moment, Mere Blips On A Screen, That This Is The Way We Live Now. Memory Marketed As Nostalgia; Terror Reduced To Mere Suspense, To Melodrama.

Art Means Nothing If It Simply Decorates The Dinner Table Of Power Which Holds It Hostage.

When The Landscape Buckles And Jerks Around, When A Dust Column Of Debris Rises From The Collapse Of A Block Of Buildings On Bodies That Could Have Been Your Own, When The Staves Of History Fall Awry And The Barrel Of Time Bursts Apart, Some Turn To Prayer, Some To Poetry: Words In The Memory, A Stained Book Carried Close To The Body, The Notebook Scribbled By Hand--a Center Of Gravity.

Those Who Speak Largely Of The Human Condition Are Usually Those Most Exempt From Its Oppressions - Whether Of Sex, Race, Or Servitude.