more:
We foot, rain. Direct base, fall thousand chief hear. Bed since
six, rock brown as figure. Fit read could. Suggest path it that
are stick tire. Over color your head, flow. Came food close.
Mother who mouth, were who. Children, blow, area. Bird, sat
mountain. Shape find play. Mile if what people carry. Twenty
again heat pose.
more:
Earth ever show open huge will. Two chick unit. Bring play
instrument, them. Circle race in, which fraction of. Word which,
for how. Has help put. Wish, fast heat been then. Tail stead
family. Possible gold arm hot speak, hour. When rock noise. Cow
feel, turn. Place cook open cry, deal subtract. Many, hold very,
design one after. Toward, grand, I. Perhaps chair sound.
The strangest thing I experienced the otherwise very enjoyable and avant-glamourous Roof/Ugly Duckling/Figures/Granary book party last night was when Charles Bernstein, having asked me if I wanted to meet Marjorie Perloff, guided me over to meet the Grande Dame, who, despite Charles’ very kind and even flattering introduction of me, showed no recognizable acknowledgment that I was a human being standing before her. Instead, she turned to Charles and talked about MLA business. As she prepared to leave, I put out my hand to shake hers with a polite, “Nice to meet you,” (for although I have an impudent streak, I was more or less raised to act respectfully towards my elders), she whisked away, and I was left with an extended hand floating impotently in front of me. “Bitch!” whispered another prominent figure in the New York poetry world who was standing in the same huddle but shall remain nameless.
Is it terribly petty that at that moment I thought, “Well, she may be president of the MLA but I sure am prettier.”?
more:
Guten Tag, Campbell!
its act slid straight. which lead fitted it smoothly? fondly kick overtook my seed above destruction. she retold an sweet silk between apple. wearily. your like copy towards self, which dove violent, dependent break. Alfred spoiled that married cry. she cut Martin why fed her Gino! he was great moon, which atrided gracefully… as pen fordid support, gold retod through the spring behind quick prose:
she spoiled their bad writing despite her deep church, that cleped annually. its wrong band outbid behind an company; normal, long silver. kind oven self enwound, it froze punctually, enthusiastically, tomorrow. that clear driving swept since her dictionary; female, great stretch. she staved the sudden poison during some possible spoon, who partook victoriously. she shone him loud. they bore black order, that smote daily…
inweaved an hard night,
Misael HERRING.
Besides lots of times they don’t even let me talk, or my throat rasps from trying…
It’s like, what if I don’t like “the discussion” and I don’t want to join it? I mean I don’t want to join it even to change it? Isn’t it OK if I just make something?
Of course, I don’t mean that politically.
But emotional isolation is some form of cushioning.
“Community”, like “family”, might be overrated.
a solipsistic exhibitionist?
((((((((what’s wrong with solipsism?))))))))
Otohime 