Ham on Rye: An Excerpt

I read all the books by D. H. And they led to others. To H. D., the poetess. And Huxley, the youngest of the Huxleys, Lawrence’s friend. It all came rushing at me. One book led to the next. Dos Passos came along. Not too good, really, but good enough. His trilogy, about the U.S.A., took... Continue Reading →

As the poems go…

As the poems go into the thousands you realize that you've created very little. It comes down to the rain, the sunlight, the traffic, the nights and the days of the years, the faces. Leaving this will be easier than living it, typing one more line now as a man plays a piano through the... Continue Reading →

So You Want To Be A Writer?

If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words,... Continue Reading →

But Don’t Write Poetry!

Go to Tibet Ride a camel. Read the bible. Dye your shoes blue. Grow a beard. Circle the world in a paper canoe. Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post. Chew on the left side of your mouth only. Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor. And carve your name in... Continue Reading →

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