We need more farms and farmers, we need to work the land.
It is monday morning and my shoes are bright green and the sun is windily finding everyone in town and waking them up and asking them out for a stroll. It is spring and we are all suddenly elated. No one is down these days, no one is blue. Baseball games and barbeques and booty calls, too. It is the time of year when we climb carefully down our cliffs and spend an hour sitting in the sand and picking it up and letting it pour and picking it up and letting it pour thru the cracks in our hands.
Write a springtime poem! you demand, 500 words or less, and tell me sweetly in my ear what you look like in the morning. Is your hair frayed and stuck like a housefern left out in the night? Are you getting fat? Good; it's the time of year to get fat. This country is too nice and kind for California salads on green patio furniture with black ashtrays. This country is meat; this city is an ice cream cone and a second scoop. Let another quarter million in; there's still room by the pool.
Write a springtime poem! you demand, 500 words or less, and tell me sweetly in my ear what you look like in the morning. Is your hair frayed and stuck like a housefern left out in the night? Are you getting fat? Good; it's the time of year to get fat. This country is too nice and kind for California salads on green patio furniture with black ashtrays. This country is meat; this city is an ice cream cone and a second scoop. Let another quarter million in; there's still room by the pool.