[return to Contents Page]
Talk from the Salad Bowl
At dawn I wake up. My papers fly. Sheets wing, galleys glide, files flee. The page caught in my printer flips like a fish tail. Salty ocean breeze blows down the Salinas Valley – sweetening seeds, dusting vines, greening veggies, digging earthy smells – and then, it barges into my room through the open window – burdened with the fresh dirt. I find dirt in Leaves of Grass, Flowers of Evil, The Grapes of Wrath – everything I love.
Writing in the Salad Bowl of America, I scratch the dirt from the bottom of my wallet, digging for copper. I shouldn't be bitching, though. Writers dish dirt.
hit the dirt