Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry. Poem with Parrots for My Dangerous Man. Can occur in any language. The moon remains the moon no matter what irons. We toss into its craters. A telephone cabals, and your aggravation whoops into the night. A ring of unease circulates the kith and kin. Give me some skin! I know what Im doing with mine.

Poetry IS the heart of the matter. The Heart of the Matter. Handwritten text is my starting point for most writing, especially poetry. In journals and on fugitive sheets of paper, phrases fall like scattered seed. Some germinate into full bloom while others lay fallow. Perhaps fragements generate new roots, take hold and aim skyward.