Coming from the place of heart I am always conscious consciousness As a star in the one mind.

In the wisps and the doggéd night Which eats its flesh scewered leisurely by firelight On steaming plates, in heaps and mounds of delicacy.

When will we believe the awakening is real? She deigns to bridge the sinister heap and her heart is pure like crystalline obsidian. Then I ask her in hushed tones whether she will beg forgiveness. "Why?", she asks. I reply with a smile, "For caring, Chicken Little, for caring."

Bridges to Tirabithia and I fell in love with her again on the journey from here to there. Learning about stench of flesh alight in pleasure and, also, her softness and fury.

some of my words