|
11 December 2004.
|
|
It's strange to me the number of writers around who'll bounce casually or portentously (too often their utterances everywhere splashed into by deep-diving cormorants whose prey is Injustice or Hypocrisy or some like Evil, or filled with horse-headed flowers spitting bleeding stars into the Tropic of Cancer that urchins throw bars of Ivory Soap at that hit, and--hitting--turn into operas about my father's seventh kneecap) from one word to another as I now am, and call the unlineated result a poem
|
although there's not a single one I knows who'd write two lines like these and call them prose. |
|
|
|
|
|