WRITING FAST BECOMES
ITS OWN JOY
All those bricks and salvos, they have no name; they're
just thrown out like some riff-raff from a nasty Irish bar.
And I'm not saying, just meaning. Here, look about you,
what do you see? Every Woolworth's in the world has
been closed down and vanished. Nothing left but stupid
pretzel factories and jam palaces. Who makes this world?
Today it's us, tomorrow, it's the kids; wonder of wonders
and sabbath-land in the far wilderness too. It won't be
getting any better than this. Let me carry my battleship-gray,
the monument I wanted. I'll place it down at the Naval Academy's
reviewing stand and see what transpires. Johnny-Come-Lately
by whatever means, he can have whatever stays.
Look happy. Look far. When writing fast
becomes its own sweet joy, you know
you've gone too far.
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