Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.

Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?

In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write.

God bless the roots! Body and soul are one.