People read emotionally. They pick up and load certain phrases as if they were outlined in flourescent green, no matter what the context. This is the textual origin of the soundbyte.
Lovers and enemies (in general, I mean, not mine) (I don’t think I have any true enemies, except the ones that are making the planet uninhabitable for all of us) know what I’m talking about.
The pain of being dragged into the fray.
But wait, hadn’t I said that I wanted to be in the fray?
Chest open, steaming again in the cold air.
Why does this keep happening?
What was I saying?
Of course it’s a form of cowardice: “this isn’t real.”
A slug in salt.
A feline amorality has taken me this far.
A flower of hilarious gentle nihilism in the midst of a steel ring of ethical imperatives (they look like crystals). Then, the deep grassy pit.
Exquisite coincidence:
Leslie Scalapino reading poems of Michael McClure’s at the Enough reading Saturday, complete with grahhhrrrs, in her smooth whisper.
I don’t like the word “blog”.
Trying to think of some alternatives:
casbah
corner
pocket
pied a terre
pad
lilypad
burrow
hutch
niche
steam room
David Hess (clink link to left) has written a very sweet song for me on his blog. It shows he has been reading the words here very closely. A+, Dave.
(I’m guessing that the pronunciation of Nevada in it should rrrrhyme with my name?)
(I’ve been through Nevada several times. I like that arid sage-y smell.)
Otohime 