And The Mind That Has Conceived A

I Do Not Know If All Cops Are Poets, But I Know That All Cops Carry Guns With Triggers.

And While The Ice Was Melting To Form A Flood In Which I Threatened To Drown I Awoke One Afternoon To Find That My First Northern Winter Had Set.

The Blues Is An Impulse To Keep The Painful Details And Episodes Of A Brutal Experience Alive In One's Aching Consciousness, To Finger Its Jagged Grain, And To Transcend It, Not By The Consolation Of Philosophy But By Squeezing From It A Near-tragic, Near-comic Lyricism. As A Form, The Blues Is An Autobiographical Chronicle Of Personal Catastrophe Expressed Lyrically.

In Order To Travel Far You Have To Be Detached.

If Social Protest Is Antithetical To Art, What Then Shall We Make Of Goya, Dickens, And Twain?