And thusly the hitherto wither hurled wags on.Ĭhrestomathy, ponderous what, is a librarian's word for 'compendium, ' which is what all this below is, and all the poems listed, many to be justly, clinical term, 'deactivated' (as will I be, deactivated, sooner than later washing my socks, one can hope, pray, wish may come, somewhere else in the multiverse). Ipseity, fun to say, moribund to be, means 'the quality of being oneself or itself the essential element of identity which begs the question of the nature of identity, upon what is such based, existence (LATIN: esse) or essense (Latin: essentiam). Arthur Rimbaud, from The Broken Boat, second poem in Grave or urn or scatter greeted everly byĪh! I am so forsaken I will worship at any shrine impulses toward perfection. 'stained white radiance' eventually stumbling,įoolishly surprised each time, into all our
HAIKI BUCKLE SANDAL BORN FREE
Living, we think, free while leaving that Precise and precipitous prescriptions for History-blunted inscriptions of impermanence, The volumes we call Myth, Religion, Art, and Remain which in their stiff muteness provoke
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Thereafter the losses, the embossing scarsĬave walls such are brain pans. Just what is it the meek shall inherit, after all?įirst hurts hurt us into conscious selves, I await another dispatch prayer for the far flung tracers. 'Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.' The psalmist says it right, no matter the blight: Waiting for another dispatch to Bumf*ck and Divine. It is so brilliantly human to find the diamond in the sh-t. Revealed in now glittering Texan and still warring Iraqi sand. Their worst vote for 'visionary company' in those universes Hours, forlorn miles in the merciless cab all jib jab flap andįlutter real voice about poor human choices which even at Since then and now and to come during the insufferable The books (never false starts) read and to be read written That freckle in 'Father Frank's What-The-F*ck-Land', all Whence all but he had fled - Felicia Dorothea HemansĪll opening lines are strung up years ago when you were Oh, pretty boy, Can't you show me nothing but surrender? - Patti Smith Without fear of oceans, this one between us whichįodor Not Fyodor - Night Walk With Images (exerpt) This music, your patient ear awaiting the purist pearl,įor you were once the bequeathed, escaped girl
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Still, one gathers names of each joven prince passedĪgain, upon Kingfisher's wings I blow these kisses, The tedious seasons of long life endured. One may reach a 'Pure Land' which has no logic, One endures long enough to break through thunder,Ī taut belly, a smooth place for lips to land. From The Dusk Of My Ghost House - Adventures Of An Autodactyl - Variant Excursions Into Ipseity - Autobiography Of An Inner Life, A Crestomathy, A Vanity - Mildly Tourettic, Somewhatįor E.