There was this mountain village in Russia where my music was getting in on some German radio station. I remember this because music used to get up to Saskatchewan from Texas. Late at night after the local station closed down.

You snipe so steady, you snub so snide, so rip and ready to diminish and deride.

You feed it all your woes, the ghostly garden grows.

You win the lasting laurels with your laughter.

I still believe in the power of the word, that words inspire.

He's swept with the broom of contempt and the rooms have an empty ring.

Eventually, with success, I started to feel more and more isolated - like I didn't have a community of artists.