THE SUN IS SHINING

Folder: 
TROUBADOR'S CHOICE

 

 

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”

 

 

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allets's picture

Odd

i seldom let literature (art) do anything but elevate and inspire to say never again! Or: To be fought. It is a choice.