It’s like walking a tightrope, to use a cliché metaphor.
Futons on the floor, that sort of thing.
Not that that makes him any different than anyone else, on second thought.
Hard to say what will come of it.
I think I’m old-fashioned in this view.
Contrivance is now supposed to be a form of honesty, like laying bare the device.
It would be nice to do that again. Hmm… perhaps a more or less theoretika meets…?
Me, staring at my eviction notice. In the ass.
Ah, life would be so easy if everything would indeed be that simple.
And you’re right to challenge me on use of “authentic.”
How much can a writer rightfully demand from his audience in terms of attention and effort.
Yeah, yeah… they stop the flow of water at 1/5000 of a second.
I love shit like that. I might have to search it out. Which might just be cockamamie ego shit.
Let me know when you want to begin pro-seedings w/regard to the immanent discuss of langue foibles, glee.
Literary acts consciously foreground interpretive situations.
The slippery slope argument comes out anytime someone feels threatened.
Thanks for calling him and following up.
I agree that modern poetry has its dark side.
That’s probably a fair critique of my position.
But, rhetorically, I was trying not to complain.
I almost never anticipate that. I won’t have a car.
And hey, you have an arch-enemy? How cool. I want one!
But you’re right, I don’t think pure difference is even thinkable at all.
I’m certainly open to whomever you’d like to invite.
The barrage of information demonstrated what the future held in store.
But of course your there is not their there.
Nothing more than this? Nothing less.
She now has a hole in her stomach you can fit your fist into, the insides of which look like the second layer of one of those transparency drawings of anatomy we used to see in encyclopedias.
Interpretation is a device, artificial surgery-like.
Yes, saw the post. The whole is the under-side connection.
It was worse than anything either of you have said, and worse than what I did.
The poetry of sex lies entirely elsewhere.
Special cocktails for the ladies with nuts.
Language is a gauge. Poetry the notches of measurement. We are the scale.
There is, of course, no money in it…
Much easier to blab in person, which I miss, in lots of ways that are as selfish as anything else.
Snake monster was last week. Ceiling monster this week.
Quivering meat, thumps. Imaginary beings sealed in flesh.
How much pretending is a part of caring?
This may be a trick question, but I’m biting anyway; it has been on my mind all week.
Not too bad, really, for a quick and dirty situation.
It will never get out.