If You Can Show Me How I

We Look Too Much To Museums. The Sun Coming Up In The Morning Is Enough.

If Social Protest Is Antithetical To Art, What Then Shall We Make Of Goya, Dickens, And Twain?

I Suddenly Recall The Arpeggios Of Laughter Lilting Across The Tender, Springtime Grass-gay-welling, Far-floating, Fluent, Spontaneous, A Bell-like Feminine Fluting, Then Suppressed; As Though Snuffed Swiftly And Irrevocably Beneath The Quiet Solemnity Of The Vespered Air Now Vibrant With Somber Chapel Bells.

Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled 'file And Forget.'

Life Is As The Sea, Art A Ship In Which Man Conquers Life's Crushing Formlessness, Reducing It To A Course, A Series Of Swells, Tides And Wind Currents Inscribed On A Chart.