Develop Craftsmanship Through Years Of Wide Reading.

He Pressed His Face Into The Fabric And Breathed In Slowly Through His Mouth And Nose, Hoping For The Faintest Smoke And Mountain Sage And Salty Sweet Stink Of Jack But There Was No Real Scent, Only The Memory Of It, The Imagined Power Of Brokeback Mountain Of Which Nothing Was Left But What He Held In His Hands.

We're All Strange Inside. We Learn How To Disguise Our Differences As We Grow Up.

I Would Rather Be Dead Than Not Read

It Is My Feeling That A Story Is Not Finished Until It Is Read, And That The Reader Finishes It Through His Or Her Life Experience, Prejudices, Worldview And Thoughts.

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.