Where

Fallen from that great purpose.
The stars look on us, sightless

People

We see them as they are, irreducible. And then we see them as they transpire to be...

Reality intervenes in its ghost form, and we must lose forever our faith in illusion - the oneness in sight.

But going back, what can we say? That we have aged, and that is to say nothing at all...

The King of France

The King of France wears flowers on his head.

Telling It As It Is

Why do I tend to obscurity? Because plainness is preferrable; obscurity is plainest possible.

Bus Stop

I sprint to the bus-stop. The bus is standing there, waiting for me. I arrest myself, not to defeat my purpose by overrunning the bus. As I arrest my purpose, the bus begins to move. The bus has purpose too. The bus arrests itself, in beginning to move.

The bus is not moving yet, and I am standing still.
I try to catch the driver's eye, he does not move his head.
I try to catch the driver's eye, and now it is released.

The bus leaves me behind, my thoughts are flying now, we are transported

No Stranger

Prose is a habit of mind. Poetry is breaking the habit... Poetry is more valuable than prose?

Not if the habit is home.

Right

The word "communism" makes me see red.

Laugh.

"How many people are there in a Dogon family?"

"Five. Two parents, two children, and one French anthropologist."

Found it fun innit

"Manet white
Corot ochre
Millet wheat
Lautrec slate"

-- from May Swenson's "PARADE OF PAINTERS": "Assignment of Colors"

What is it?
Wit?

May Swenson/David Schubert

Which is more beautiful - the poetry of pleasure, or the poetry of despair?