we look for in a good book, painting, music or conversation?
A stretch of runway to take off, and return us to ourselves.
are many ways to donate blood, writing is one.
suffer from mass logorrhea; memoirs and blogs are twin afflictions
of our literary times.
maintain immaculate speech, often times silence is required.
silence is like embarking on a whale hunt. If one actually catches
up with this creature of the depths, there’s the danger
of being swallowed whole.
arrives like a hand in the dark.
Ideal: a language scrubbed clean by silences.
it is not poetry that purifies the language of the tribe, but
that we could rescue the profundity of silence for our speech.
undercurrents is the language we can neither learn, nor unlearn:
hear what someone is saying listen closely to their language;
to overhear what they are thinking, pay attention to their body
highest function of literature is transformational.
is never a personal enterprise; a poet sings for those who cannot.
of the definition of an aphorist is one who spots aphorisms,
and loosens them from the prose -- the way Michelangelo described
his sculpting process as freeing the angel from the marble.
are the echoes of our silences.
are also metaphysical expense reports.
talking to the page, like it’s the last person on earth.
is becoming innocent, again.
other people’s traditions.
is the longest-lasting pain-killer.
in doubt, meditate - on things that have happened that you thought
impossible; and those that have not, that you thought possible.
as a symbol, represents what we are denied in our earthly existence.
To the thinker, this means the certainty of answers.
restless sleep born of the uneasy sensation that, at bottom,
all is not well.
problem with being full of yourself is that you cannot fill
up with much else.
Stockholm Syndrome begins at home.
militaries are a little like organized pedophilia: corrupt elders
seducing the young, abusing their minds and bodies, then discarding
of the night’s previous
sulks or arguments,
climbs into bed
breathless as a child
eager to play.
been lavishly gifted with a pain
as thick and rich as oil paint
By pushing it around the page
I have learned to make Art.
once you’ve arrived at the perimeters
that knot of contradictions, idiosyncrasies
the hall of mirrors
that comfort and distort
liberation of undifferentiation
awaits the well-ventilated soul.
in Medellin, what night lights -
like a resplendent necklace, glittering
against the bare throat of the mountains
coming in and out of focus
as though the mountains were breathing
between sharing a tender memory
of the city, with the valley and themselves.
the park, this morning, a boy
bespectacled, gangly, impish grin
idly chasing a squirrel guarding an acorn -
both proceed in crouches and pounces
Trailing behind them, a man
bespectacled, bearded, bemused
Armed with tell-tale pen and notebook
the poet eavesdrops on youth and life.