The Writing Of Words Can Lead To

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

Draw, Draw, Hundreds Of Drawings. Try To Remain Humble. Smartness Kills Everything.

I Think That Those Of Us Who Are What Are Called Intellectuals Make A Terrible Mistake In Overvaluing The Yen We Have For The Arts, Books, Etc. There Is A Sweet, Fine Quality In Life That Has Nothing To Do With This, And More And More I Find Myself Valuing Myself With Those People.

I'll Do Something, Get Into Some Kind Of Work Where Talk Don't Count. Maybe I'll Just Be A Mechanic In A Shop. I Don't Know. I Guess I Don't Care Much. I Just Want To Work And Keep Quiet. That's All I've Got In Mind.

Everyone In The World Is Christ And They Are All Crucified.