Friday, March 12, 2004

I wanted to rule all the milkshakes and all the carpet cleaners. I wanted to choose poems from the mass and isolate only the emotion. one day Cid Corman died into news, but I respected the telltale left in the breeze, like the waft in autumn as West Virginia transpired. I wanted to include the blood of life, but grew scared, for everything slips thru. I wanted numbers to isolate principles, and isolation itself to reward dull hills with autumn insistence. I wanted to read of heaven in the hills. something terrible can happen and you grow fond. we look at terrible words and expect something different. clear light and black light and Cid Corman's death. we like to say that some people are 'like that', but it is only too true. a poem doesn't lodge in the word nor vice versa. trees in West Virginia are different somehow I mean, I am here in Massachusetts, a long way from 'home'.

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