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a story to tell
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whole lotta other stuff
Out in the street baby, we burn.
Down on the street baby, we burn.
Understand the poetry.
Understand the relevance.
Richness of loss exists in the mind.
Illusion is luck like a gift of knowledge and language.
Sensitivity is a gift to voices heard.
Precise nuance of place can miss the point
From what experience will we value immersion?
Is the voice of culture something more then perfection?
In poetry, are the signposts of direction clear?
Have we finally arrived encapsulated?
Are we much like the traveler of bad highway manners?
Approach any discourse.
Look to Greece or Rome for a motif of reality and environment.
Continue to orient the spirit.
It serves to temper the acquisition of knowledge.
Measure a man, without suspicion.
Individual eminence does not envelop the dark of night.
Surely, there is a pretense to locating the address of the poet.
It is a place among the complications of a poem.
Was there an assassination?
A voice can remain essentially silent with no sense of soul.
Turn on phrases, not with irony, nor sarcasm, is it oblivious to social milieu.
Seek to possess the blossom; more than a mere utterance... speak to love.
Neither caricature, nor conscious exists in a mind unless richly endowed.
Language is a gift of sensitivity
To give voice in understanding that comes from experience
Locate the poet, with the serious skin.
Poetry gives glory to the cloud chaser.
Direction clearly demarcated with strength, mystery, energy, wisdom, and trust.
Employ styled sweaty flames, for overnight use.
These old hands manipulate my humanity.
My visions have desire and light in combination with truth.
We are all located souls; we all have a story to tell.
