“Constellation” is, for me, a big word.  I mean: it is a big word.  But more than that, it’s a word which looms large in my thought.

I feel isolated at times, but I know that I—everyone, really—exists within an often shifting web of contexts, entities, persons and concerns.

Writing poetry is, at its best, a most excellent constellating practice:  a form of resistance and alternate world creation.

Constellations aren’t hierarchies.

Constellations are environments, microenvironments and pinballing Ids.

That concludes this afternoon’s sermon.