Men make things. Women make things worthwhile.
As God, I completely and utterly heal myself and The World and enlist my angels to do my biding and I entrain my lovers to prepare their bodies and their souls for my dallying and ravishing and delight
My heart is a steak marinated in love, tender from nashing, raw, then seared, asizzle
Universe, You allow me my happenstance and I happen to love you.
The lake luxuriates in deep infinity
so low my fruit heavy bearing your light bare feet piercing me with high heels
There is something in spontaneous being that defies analysis. That analysis, set apart from spontaneous being, searches for cheating rules when, without rules, being one’s self is not the rule, but simply the way. One sells one’s self short attempting to package one’s self into something that fits when fitting is supposed to be the substance. The broad expanse of the self, the contemporality of the self is that most precious elixir of the self we fain would capture if we could without denying its essence.
So much beautiful wild my little
A certain inner peace, quite safe and pleased with herself, wherein there is a certain knowing of the world whereby wherever she alights upon the world that same pleasant fastidiousness whereupon she chuckles with herself she chuckles with her acquaintance wherewith the unknown and uncouth are handily known and tamed: a traveling tea party
Art is a gift, something intricate — oh, stark something.