My friends are the monsters and the dispossessed & to paraphrase James Baldwin every bombed-out village is my home . . .

I want to do so much more of what I dream may last but most of my offerings are ephemeral in nature. I dream and offer back into dreaming.

After the war moved in, some went numb and never returned. Some emitted the atmosphere of carnival, others of tombs.

The point, if there is one, is to emerge. Or else it is to acknowledge the emergence of something. It is possible these acts are synonymous.

We pulled the husks of cicadas from our ears and the buried songs emerged from these gestating skeletons, and in the end we held them. . .