- A picture from another time is etched upon my mind. It’s a picture from an unfamiliar place that is inscribed upon me. Unhappy and unfamiliar faces stare back at me. Unimportant looks from nowhere places. Sunshine from other sites illuminates their crestfallen faces.
- Jazz died because it fell into the pool’s deep end and couldn’t return. Even lush-life jazz couldn’t begin again. That’s deep, man, can you dig it?
- America’s playing a losing hand. The cards of the dead men’s hand keep returning to America’s hand; in this game, there ain’t no check and raise.
- There are a lot of ill-bred bores roaming around these days. History is a conversation looking for a place to speak. Mystical history is trying to replace the narrative kind. Reason rules until emotions take over. America is spending its way into oblivion. History shows that sore losers are always spilling the blood of others on the ground.
- The will to begin again has an end, my friend. The theater of the mind plays to its end; a period of silence follows, only to start again. Share what you’ve been given. Each one teaches one. We all need to get along.
- Share what you’ve been given. Each one teaches one.
