Friday, March 21, 2014

Title is Piquant, Maid or No

I am not quite sure what Piquant means. And, I will not look it up to look like I know more than I do at this very moment. No, that one there.

Already he is losing friends who uses words the definitions of which as the maid rises to her breakfast he is not certain. And, quotes. I have lost all feeling & care for quotations marks unless they of themselves support their inclusion. Capitalization within a sentence is fine, though I think the practice began in novel dialogue, Hemingway comes to mind. Briefly, granted. Au revoir, Hemingway. Do not be too piquant.

I post here "in the vein" (HA) of concrete formalism, which is sweeping the front hallway in preparation of the day, when the maid stops to wonder what's next, across the classrooms and college greens of no one's mind, but I hope I do nothing to support it. Concrete formalism, I mean. Not colleges or maids.

I have nothing to do to support what I do as long as I do it as well as I can, and I have nothing to say to support what I have done assuming that it is worth people's time to read/view and enjoy, but I do post to the Facebook page of Concrete Formalist Poetry, where other post, so, who knows. Maybe we have saved lives.

But the point of her toe as she hops about in imitation of cook when once she espied a mouse is that we are of a condition for naming a thing even as we are clearly intelligent and perhaps have no need of titles to know that a Thing is There. But, if so, perhaps words should not suffice for feeling, and this we cannot allow, not without an appointment. Sorry, Sir. Madam is engaged in corporeal speculations with the gardener.

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