Michael Malone - Weebly

saint who worked hard all her life.
There was never a need to know more. No one in
Phoenix, no one at Colorado State, no one at the
Chicago Star, no one in the Village, no one in
America, had ever asked Richard Rage to show his
past-port. He became a poet all on his own. No one
said he couldn't.
He could have become anything he wanted to.
Success or failure was his for the making. Poetry was
his family Bible, Emily Dickinson was his mother, Hart
Crane his father. He wrote poems extolling
pastlessness, he glorified the land where everyone could
rise out of Phoenix nothing but themselves, everyone an
empty canvas on a stretcher, and free to paint whatever
vision they chose there.
But now Rage sighed, now that he needed roots,
and it was too late to find them now, now that the files
were dead. It was all different today, today he was in
love and wanted a future, and men who want the future
also feel the need of the past. Richard wanted his
Beatrice, radiant there by the window nuzzling Big
Mutt, to nurse their future. But what (and the thought