Starting to read, for delight. Charlotte and her many babies, her poignant demise. The long-lashed piglet Wilbur. The Poky Little Puppy. I could almost have stopped there, with the Poky Little Puppy. Image: large -headed baby dog. Green grass. Dishes of dog food.
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?
What was I saying?
Chest open, steaming again in the cold air.
Why does this keep happening?
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
