A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.
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Anand Thakur
A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.
ANNE CARSON
Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows – dear stench.
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Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.
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Meanwhile music pounded / across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being / a self in a song.
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We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing (whatever it is) that glitters on the earth– we call it life.
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Under the seams runs the pain.
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It takes practice to shave the skin off the light.
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My religion makes no sense and does not help me therefore I pursue it.
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Reality is a sound, you have to tune in to it not just keep yelling.
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Poetry – poiesis means a thing made.
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Love dares the self to leave itself behind, to enter into poverty.
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I am a drop of gold he would say I am molten matter returned from the core of earth to tell you interior things.
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It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.
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All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life.
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Sometimes a journey makes itself necessary.
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Comfortable means gradually more and more flattened down, more and more blunt – less and less sharp and biting into you.
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