There ain't no sun beatin' in my doorway, and there ain't none of
your sacred seas and canyons around; but there is a socialist's
riot in the street below--kerosene torches a-going--one shaggy
haired enthusiast is standing on a soap box and is wagging his
jaw in an athletic way.... How's the fire burning under your
type-mill? What's the brand of smoke it gives up--poetry, action,
lumps of granite or ladles of ocean? I'm all lit up in this place
here--because things are moving--real issues are gathering--and
the pulse of living is so close that I can almost feel it
occasionally. Last Saturday, went to a place called Rockaway--and
oh man--rocks--rugged grey and eroded--surf bitten--gnarled,
twisted--and they tossed the sea's white jaws about like bits
of cotton. Real sea coast it was--with a little smack in the
purple way, her sails bellied, her mouth lapping the brine--an
old fisherman browsing around the shores for clams while his wife
hauled up the nets, basketed the cod and upturned their boat.
Put an extra stick under the machine and line a few of your
aphorisms.
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