the ground grew jealous of the night sky
and reached over to grab the stars
as the earth eclipsed the moon
the night grew
just a little bit darker
i turned to you
to grab your hand
but only saw a shadow
of myself
where you once stood.

J.U.

What art offers is space - a certain breathing room for the spirit.

A narrative is like a room on whose walls a number of false doors have been painted; while within the narrative, we have many apparent choices of exit, but when the author leads us to one particular door, we know it is the right one because it opens.

Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.

I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

Creativity is merely a plus name for regular activity. Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right, or better.

laughter

laughter dies but is never dead
laughter lies outside the back of its head
laughter laughs at what is never said
it trills and squeals and swills in your head
it trills and squeals in the heads of the dead
and so all the lives remain laughing instead
sucked in by the laughter of the severed head
sucked in by the mouths of the laughing dead

reading

to read poetry is essentially to daydream

poetry lost...

...and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.

revolution?

to create is to resist.

solitude

how happy the child who really possesses his moments of solitude.