Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And

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.

Any Fool Can Take A Bad Line Out Of A Poem; It Takes A Real Pro To Throw Out A Good Line.

I Always Felt Mean, Jogging Back Over The Logging Road,as If I Had Broken The Natural Order Of Things In That Swampland;disturbed Some Rhythm, Old And Of Vast Importance,by Pulling Off Flesh From The Living Planet;as If I Had Committed, Against The Whole Scheme Of Life, A Desecration.

I Came Where The River Ran Over Stones; My Ears Knew An Early Joy. And All The Waters Of All The Streams Sang In My Veins That Summer Day.

All Lovers Live By Longing, And Endure: Summon A Vision And Declare It Pure.