Saturday, July 9, 2011

I am in the business of life
I deal in beauty
Nothing your hands can touch.

I go beyond mere exchange
To where we cannot tell apart
The touch of fingers or of colors.

Expectations change.  Nothing is stable.
The dance of atoms in the absolute dark
Require chaos and chance and coincidence and magick.

Life grows out of death
Destruction evolves into composting
Green shoots to grow from volcanic dust.
Reunited 1947