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Showing posts from March, 2024

poem (sic transit)

Sic transit It was the weekend we found  Stanley  in the car, he was a walnut, Louise is reported To have said the same thing, only earlier, watching his transit  across the floor. The Chinese  specimen tree growerd in the yard and was o r was not planted  by someone. The tree is the lonely one.

poem (Evenings in Williamsburg)

Evenings in Williamsburgh oh Beautiful plush grief. Why are there stories In the closet?  Why up Bedford Street is a flag  flapping? Solidly middle class? The bananas are named Bonita They are a Product of Ecuador. And there stands Raymond  Chandler  who is lurking  among the lights. Balzac however is not there, but the 97th Precinct is arriving.

poem (against dahlias such)

  poem (a gainst dahlias,  as such Let us attempt not to think in dualisms dualities, twos, this and that, one or zero that kind of thing. Ambiguity is good and so is multiplicity, though it sounds like complicity. The divine persuasion  harbors such inequities, Talmudic footlings  as Pound said of Zukofsky, with a judgmental absolutism. Rabbinic reading of things, though, is beautiful.  But we love artifice. Not we but I, who  am always trying to make others complicit. Like footnotes which are glorious minimums of knowledge, essays in con- cision, scissor-like boxcars, six, six, six blue jewels, droplets drole with sincerity, devolving into critical aporia, spelunkers  in the cave of language. Dire warnings not to be missed. Facture, Fraktur, specialized to a point of clarity, mirrors of souls, or pilgrims bent on pictures, Rudolfo Tamayo Charles Demuth, Tina Modotti exit the white bowl of life, but their hands  remain. Blink, blink, with the eye...

poem (The Burning Furrows)

  poem (the burning furrows) But who is anyway he whiles away painting at him whose very name feels like meningitis and at this point how about the bow and arrow episode we were delicate things. I should drop a line. Telephone. After all I don't think so. The devil about the house, yes. was there caterwauling? or intricate novels deserving of penalty, of rivulets some plankton is floriferous dinner, Dahlia forgot to ask questions. We all forget the spoiled, the burning furrowed.