Darling,
do you remember
the man you married?
Touch me,
remind me who I am.

What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire.

Old myths, old gods, old heroes have never died. They are only sleeping at the bottom of our mind, waiting for our call. We have need for them. They represent the wisdom of our race.

When I took my poetry class in school. I read an e. e. cummings poem. I don’t mind eels except how they feels and maybe as meals. I knew there was hope for me.

Ideally, an instrument used for touch playing should be an electric with an accurate neck, frets in good condition, strong pickups, and good sustain.

The sort of poetry I seek resides in objects man can't touch.