Aug 31
The Kitchen, 2am Christmas Morning There’s no poetry in this room or very little, only what I brought with me, field rations if you will, nourishing but hardly filling. Poems are like ghosts, the clingy kind, the hungry kind, the kind that yearn to rest but don’t know how like me tonight in this kitchen …
Feb 19
Observer Effect III Curiously enough, one cannot read a book; one can only reread it.—Vladimir Nabokov This poem won’t make sense to you the first time you read it so let’s pretend this is the second time and jump straight to the next stanza. The words in a poem never change. They are fixed, immutable, …
