Books Are Not Men And Yet They

Since Graveyards Are Often Built Over Older Burial Grounds, I Assume Dolores Park Was Probably An Indian, (an Ohlone) Graveyard Before That. I Think The Fact That It Has So Many Layers Underneath The Contemporary One Intrigues Me.

Seine And Piave Are Silver Spoons, But The Spoonbowl-metal Is Thin And Worn

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Are Alive. They Are Man's Memory And His Aspiration, The Link Between His Present And His Past, The Tools He Builds With.

Broad-streeted Richmond . . . The Trees In The Streets Are Old Trees Used To Living With People, Family Trees That Remember Your Grandfather's Name.

Outcasts Of War, Misfits, Rebellious Souls, Seekers Of Some Vague Kingdom In The Stars - They Hide Out In The Hills And Stir Up Trouble, Call Themselves Prophets, Too, And Prophesy, That Something New Is Coming To The World, The Lord Knows What! Well, It's A Long Time Coming, And, Meanwhile, We're The Wheat Between The Stones.