Drowned By Story/Letters To No One

You have nothing better to do than write.  Of this, you can be proud.  Nothing else has come into the closest proximity so as to push this craft away from the mind and its hungry needy spirit.

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What could you write after reading: ” . . . bone-branch flowers – soft trumpets/So quietly purple they are also white?”  (Donald Revell)

* * * *

Not in the lexicon of dreams but in the stative verbs and copulas will the next poem finds its orientation in the language linking imaginations across distance/occurrence.

* * * *

You hate it when someone says, “I don’t understand what you are talking about even as you’re trying to explain it/yourself.”  What’s worse than not being given time – no, patience – for an explanation?

* * * *

The bridge of sensation and disaffection is difficult but it will be crossed.

Nostalgia need never be overlooked despite its baffling being for both writer and reader.  Simply the personal past is a confusion. The public history even more so in its attempt/desire to establish a ‘culture.’

* * * *

“Who is with me is against me.”                       (Francis Picabia)

Calls to Adjust

admit to misgivings

come up short



sorrow calls self

better things

to do


hold strength

slippery pain

let reception



admit sorrow

hold misgivings’

calls to adjust