Really You Don't Need More

Our Bodies Are Garbage Heaps: We Collect Experience, And From The Decomposition Of The Thrown-out Eggshells, Spinach Leaves, Coffee Grinds, And Old Steak Bones Out Of Our Minds Come Nitrogen, Heat, And Very Fertile Soil. Out Of This Fertile Soil Bloom Our Poems And Stories. But This Does Not Come All At Once. It Takes Time. Continue To Turn Over And Over The Organic Details Of Your Life Until Some Of Them Fall Through The Garbage Of Discursive Thoughts To The Solid Ground Of Black Soil.

Writing Practice Brings Us Back To The Uniqueness Of Our Own Minds And An Acceptance Of It. We All Have Wild Dreams, Fantasies, And Ordinary Thoughts. Let Us To Feel The Texture Of Them And Not Be Afraid Of Them.writing Is Still The Wildest Thing I Know.

Kill The Idea Of The Lone, Suffering Artist. Don't Make It Any Harder On Yourself.

I Feel Very Rich When I Have Time To Write And Very Poor When I Get A Regular Paycheck And No Time At My Real Work.

It Is Simply That Person's Time. Ours Will Come In This Lifetime Or The Next. No Matter. Continue To Practice.