We Are Trying To Live As If

Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into Lush Velvet, Purple As The Stain Blackberries Leave On The Lips, On The Hands, The Purple Of Ripe Grapes Sunlit And Warm As Flesh.

The Art Of Fiction Is One Of Constant Seduction. You Must Persuade The Reader On Page 1 To Start Reading - On Page 50, Or Page 150 And Yes, On Page 850.

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

Every Poet Has A Certain Amount Of "stuff." That's What You Draw From For Imagery. The More Stuff You Know Well, Not Simply Intellectually But Sensually, Emotionally, Intimately, The Wider The Pool From Which You Draw.

Attention Is Love, What We Must Give Children, Mothers, Fathers, Pets, Our Friends, The News, The Woes Of Others. What We Want To Change We Curse And Then Pick Up A Tool. Bless Whatever You Can With Eyes And Hands And Tongue. If You Can't Bless It, Get Ready To Make It New.