The Gallery

Form says form and means form, As such, form is an admission and a grace.

Rhyme has been solved by certain artists, for whom for instance, "like" and "sake" are perfect.

I was in thought when nothing stopped. Everything was me saying no, but now was me hoping now, if belief is hope. But listen to how lazy I am. I invent examples and I do no research into other texts.

I do no research, I do not link. No pictures. My insight is, it sometimes appears, the insight of no insight. Do not expect me to blame myself. I have a kind of routine, a green surface. I touch at cards. I am at an age and see opportunity as circular, or recursive. Less turn than blend. Not so much blend as step upon step. Fewer steps.

More in the way of a gallery.

More of This One

This new MS will have 40 poems I think, alternating 4-line strophe bocks and unitary boxes. It puts me in mind of a venetian shade, shut, open, shut. Or a winking eye.

The above comments represent the deepest auto-textual-criticism I have offered in years, and it is representative I believe of the best I am capable of. Well, no sense in apologizing. I am a busy man. Even so, I have in mind putting in a paragraph about-the-book at the end of this book. If I wanted to I could revise all the books to put in comments. Or I could post them to my author's page on lulu.com. Neither of these ideas interest me at all, now that I have written them down.

How I love abandoning grand ideas and projects. What a gift of time to oneself, to say no thanks, not interested, with respect to one's own ideas. Or, another favorite is to plan to go into work early, or on a holiday, then blow it off. Delight be mine!

Here is the drawing/panting for the new MS, called Colossal Ways You Were Right. This will be the fourth book I have finished and produced within an 11 or 12 month period, my 20th to date, so I am feeling excited and funny about things, not worrying, perhaps even clear-eyed and apt.

Word and Street

I am happy with the poems, as happy as when I walk down a familiar street and think about the families that live in each separate house, their likely struggles and obligations and overall success. I do not have suburban nightmares. Error is a common birthright, among others, independent of place and address.

Or, as when one prepares an onion, slicing the ends so that it peels more easily, then cutting up the layers for cooking.

Or a typical Sunday jaunt, to see the local waterfalls for example, and the cars that approach in the opposite lane, one after another, expressionless faces. There, beside the road, a parked car and a man reaching into the rear seat perhaps consoling a child or rearranging things. Eight miles to go.

Almost all the time I consider the next step but you anticipate me, so I like the poems. I am almost lost and closely found, which I recognize and appreciate. A small dog emerges and circles its owner then retreats behind the house, which includes a garden on the sidewalk meridian, tomatoes and flowers.