PAUL: [low and whispery] Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, gentle Cupid, o’er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions, nature must give way to art. [something from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons] … Radio does not have any real aesthetic, but tonight I am going to forge one. As a poet might. As a bard. I do not care if I bore you, thrill you, confuse ( Read more... )

The feral boy in the mudriddled street rode his bicycle ( Read more... )

I will sigh now fhoohw before I begin this tale; when I was [illegible] thirteen my friend Michael died of gunshot and again my friend at seventeen Daniel. I think of them now whenever I 1) see people weeping openly, 2) see large amounts of blood, 3) see the clinical review of a pathologist on a crime documentary, 4) hear gossip about crime, 5) ( Read more... )

"The Ballad of Billy Branagan Pt. 1"

Billy done drunk four bottles of wine. / Billy chops chickens ( Read more... )

A letter from Leon Dacter to Kenneth C. Oliphant, poet

( Kenneth, )

the rabbit lies teeth dangling like orangedoverfronds ( Read more... )

( Talk about The Lotus, a scrap of which is sitting in a well-designed frame on my bookshelf. )

Faced with a blank page, he wrote the following:

Here begins my book of poetry, recounting as best I can, each and every premonition of death I’ve had since birth; this will be the original manuscript, typed out on a Remington Scout.

“I imagine myself eaten by the pretty dog”

( Premonition 1. )

I told [her] that all [my] sadness came/abounded [from] her way; [she] replied, “[What] are you saying about me/us that I don’t already know?” That confused/horrified [me]. [After that] I sat/thought for a long [long] time. Was I that [predictable]? I wasn’t sure [anymore]. [And] how was I/one supposed to know [anything]? [No] answers came, ( Read more... )

( Currently on hiatus: taking a break from journaling [much] literature. )