Aphorisms

Ouroboros.

I don’t like circles. Going in them. But I like the way they look. They are my favorite shape.

New Jersey.

You never know where you’re going until you’re gone.

Consciousness.

Gertrude Stein wrote mighty fine, but Virginia Woolf made even Ginsburg howl.

Hope.

Hope can be faintly heard in the cracking and crunching of a creosote tumble-brush bouncing along a sun-soaked desert road.

The winds of death orchestrate its desperate dance.

Waits.

There is a troubadour who night after night — through a confluence of smoke, and ash, and alchohol-glaze — takes to stage with demonic rage to light his voice aflame.

“Ain’t no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones,” his witch once barked. The shutters turned to dust…

Pith.

Subversive verse is the transverse of transcendance.

Dignity.

A man’s character is measured by his time on screen.

A man’s dignity is reflected in the cut of his trousers.

Meaning.

Don’t do today what you’ll be forgotten for when you die.

Purpose.

The milliner once said,

“If you reap what you sew, I suppose I have a bunch of hats.”

The woman replied,

“It doesn’t matter.”