ADVICE ON SUNDAY MORNING

"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening
That is translated through you into action.
And because there is only one of you in all time,
this expression is unique.
If you block it,
it will never exist through any other medium
and be lost.
The world will never have it.
It is not your business to determine how good it is.
Nor how valuable it is,
Nor how it compares with other expressions.
It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly
to keep the channel open.

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.
You do have to keep open and aware
directly to the urges that motivate you.

Keep the channel open.
No artist is pleased.
There is no satisfaction whatever at any time.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest that keeps us marching
and makes us more alive than others.

KEEP FAITH WITH YOUR VISION AND PASS IT ON!

Martha Graham to Agnes Demille

Pay Attention to the Miracle

the click of miracle

by Charles Bukowski

at the quarterhorse meet
at Hollywood Park

around 5 p.m.

if you are sitting at
ground level

in the
Pavilion

the track appears
to
be

above you

and

in the strange
shadow-
sunlight

the silks
are
so
bright

the color
is
like

fresh paint
on
canvas

and

the faces of
the
jocks
look

heroic.

it's a
grand
time

then

a perfect
and
peaceful

photograph

dream-
like.

such small
moments

keep

people
alive.

such small
moments

so
large

when

it

all

comes
together

and

holds.

Life is a Carnival

Poem: "Sunday Night In Santa Rosa," by Dana Gioia from Daily Horoscope
(Graywolf Press).

Sunday Night In Santa Rosa

The carnival is over. The high tents,
the palaces of light, are folded flat
and trucked away. A three-time loser yanks
the Wheel of Fortune off the wall. Mice
pick through the garbage by the popcorn stand.
A drunken giant falls asleep beside
the juggler, and the Dog-Faced Boy sneaks off
to join the Serpent Lady for the night.
Wind sweeps ticket stubs along the walk.
The Dead Man loads his coffin on a truck.
Off in a trailer by the parking lot
the radio predicts tomorrow's weather
while a clown stares in a dressing mirror,
takes out a box, and peels away his face.

Money Can't Buy You Love

Money

Money is a kind of poetry.
-Wallace Stevens

Money, the long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.

Chock it up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.

To be made of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.

It greases the palm, feathers a nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.

Money breeds money.
Gathering interest, compounding daily.
Always in circulation.

Money. You don't know where it's been,
but you put it where your mouth is.
And it talks.

Dana Gioia

FEAR AND LOATHING

RAPTURE

It's not the end of the world,
Maybe your world or
Mine, but let's face it,
Every second, someone's
World ends.
Get used to it.

Danny O'Bryan


MR. FEAR

He follows us, he keeps track.
Each day his lists are longer.
Here, death. And here,
something like it.

Mr. Fear we say in our dreams,
what do you have for me tonight?
And he looks through his sack,
his black sack of troubles.

Maybe he smiles when he finds
the right one. Maybe he's sorry.
Tell me, Mr. Fear,
what must I carry

away from your dream?
Make it small please.
Let it fit in my pocket,
let if fall through

the hole in my pocket.
Fear let me have
a small brown bat
and a purse of crickets

like the ones I heard
singing last night
out there in the stubbly field
before I slept, and met you.

Lawrence Raab