I first began writing a long time ago as a poet. Poems turned to prose. Prose matured and grew a tale and traveled haphazard but in a novel way.
I wrote from the bewilderment of life...I wrote not for gain but out of loss. I used to say I was a ‘god-hunter’.....and that voice would either find me Saint Theresa’s ecstasy, Krishnamurti’s peace or Nietzsche's madness.
I found no conclusions, no doors but eventually the walls I wrote on became grafittized and tapestaric.....
I had become a poor painter in words....
I have written a number of books on taoist philosophy (Tiger and Bent Tree); social/religious philosophy (Seven Days); adventure fiction (Firestorm) ; political theory (Political Moments); short stories (Cloaks) and a series in children books (Rubear)
I am currently working on another Political book and, also, a fictional novel about a 12 year old boy dying of cancer during a war in Europe in the mid 2030s.
The poet makes a feast out of dirt and then minces his words.
The poet is goat footed at the banquet, grinning widely into everyone's distaste.
The poet sticks shit to a blanket.
The poet fornicates with shadows.
The best poet buzzes darkly incessant in your fabric skull.
The worst poet is an indigestion.
In any coffee shop, you can smell poets by their inertia.
Good poetry is waterproof. Everyone has at least one poem in their closet. It is solely theirs in the way we forget the maker of a shoe after we have worn it awhile.
When poetry dances, it is clothed; you are naked.
The drums rhyme.
If you are patient, everything rhymes.