A Poet Must Discover That It’s His

The Answer Is Always In The Entire Story, Not A Piece Of It.

When We Die We Are Only Stories In The Minds Of Others, I Thought

It Is Utterly Soothing To Fly Fish For Trout. All Other Considerations Or Worries Drift Away And You Couldn't Keep Them Close If You Wanted. Perhaps It's Standing Thigh Deep In A River With The Water Passing At The Exact But Varying Speed Of Life. You Easily Recognize This Mortality And It Dissipates Into The Landscape.

Life Is An Honor, Albeit Anonymously Delivered.

I Wonder, When A Writer's Blocked And Doesn't Have Any Resources To Pull Himself Out Of It, Why Doesn't He Jump In His Car And Drive Around The U.s.a.? I Went Last Winter For Seven Thousand Miles And It Was Lovely. Inexpensive, Too.