Thinking about Dostoevski and
waiting for the night
to grind
to an end
and wondering where Ginsberg dreamt
of those
strange, peculiar
rhythms that the
New Criticism
don’t recognize
as poetry
Looking at an issue of
the Sewanee Review
underneath it
laying a copy
of Bukowski’s
“War All the Time”
Odd
i seldom let literature (art) do anything but elevate and inspire to say never again! Or: To be fought. It is a choice.