Saturday, September 11, 2004

first line for a poem:
There are no mysteries, all that is left us are questions:

That’s all I’ve got so far.


A poem is a wave looking for a shore to break along.
Paradise Lost is a tsunami . . . an epic is a tsunami, taking impressive note of everything as it subsumes it and rolls on.


Also, or: Language is one of those Everglade skimboats, zipping through reality. Yes, I know, the boat is real too. It is even an expression of the Everglades, shallow and light. That it zips through, hard loud & mechanical, is what I mean.

And, Abstraction is seven-league boots.


Also, or: Ars Poesis: Fat mockingbird on a thin dogwood branch, flopping to get a dried berry, life happy fattening on another's winter, nothing else, no possessions but its life and the dogwood berry’s death.

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