I Mourn In Grey, Grey

I Want To Be With People Who Submerge In The Task, Who Go Into The Fields To Harvest And Work In A Row And Pass The Bags Along, Who Are Not Parlor Generals And Field Deserters But Move In A Common Rhythm When The Food Must Come In Or The Fire Be Put Out. The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

A Strong Woman Is A Woman At Work, Cleaning Out The Cesspool Of The Ages, And While She Shovels, She Talks About How She Doesn't Mind Crying, It Opens The Ducts Of The Eyes, And Throwing Up Develops The Stomach Muscles, And She Goes On Shoveling With Tears In Her Nose.

Whatever Is Not An Energy Source, Is An Energy Sink.

I'm Probably The Only Novelist Who Has Ever Written About Political Fugitives Who Actually Knew A Lot About Them, Had Contact With Them, And Had A Realistic Notion Of How They Survived.

Your Anger Was A Climate I Inhabited Like A Desert In A Dry Frigid Weather Of High Thin Air And Ivory Sun, Sand Dunes The Wind Lifted Into Stinging Clouds That Blinded And Choked Me Where The Only Ice Was In The Blood.