I dreamed I was taking clothes down from the line on a windy day and a sweat suit blown into my body by the wind wrapped its arms and legs around me like a child and held on. I carried it indoors and laid it on a narrow cot. The thing begged me to let it go, saying it would never really be Bob Dylan.
It was a moment and not-a-moment, a sliding along the curving flow, the sinusoidal wave of things, for as one thought arose so it also passed to be replaced by another. After considering the lengthening days ahead I thought with gratitude of the dark, the short, the constrained, without which the light would have little meaning.
too much august not enough snow
I wanted to go the year before it started—he murmurs in reply. Before trucks. Before the railroad, a white goat against the red mountain. Before tourists filled the park with snow-coaches and exhaust.
of our own loneliness is loud.
We crave a friendly crowd,
smaller than us, but the same.
We carve them, make a game
of choosing their dresses and
homes, their dreams.
When in public places the blood-bright stories
flap like order papers, like petitions in the hands
of the opportunists; when home movie zoetropes
stutter out one hot, bright thirty-second span
of a kid and a garden summer long ago, strung
between some bleak financial forecast and
Everyone seems to be welding, fixing things, making things in small dim workshops or outside on the dusty, potholed streets. We drive past an open shed, dark, full of big carcases hanging on hooks; past a man in a green and yellow dragon suit striding along the street, clutching the dragon’s head while his own head hangs between hunched shoulders as if depressed.
The question of aesthetic value came up. Creeley suggested that value was created in the work, or rather, in the process of making, poesis, and in the community (or “company”) the poet/publisher built around the work (here defined as writing, aesthetics, and publishing). The professor then asked, But how are we to judge whether or not it is any good? To which Creeley responded, Who cares?
These quilts are ugly, ugly as crops in a year of no rain.
We weren’t thinking of art when we pieced
them together. We wondered how long the fabric would hold
together, whether or not we’d have enough scraps
to keep us warm through the winter.
In eighth grade my teacher one day stopped class and disturbed me out of my trance. He said I’d been staring right through him and he’d never been so uncomfortable in his life.
“She’d fall asleep? and knit at the same time?”
“Yes. Her eyes would close and her head would nod but her hands would carry on knitting. And then at the end of the programme she’d wake up and have to undo it all.”