the gyring, pustulent light
invades our hearts' sleep
in Normandies of terrible will
not to be singled out on the plain of glass
the last thing
to ask in the proffered glass
all shaven each craven at witch sleep
this policy was now an adopted thing
dark die bitter steal
tanks in the street of draped indigo
the driver's face a cipher
soft freezing rain will
burden or flutter mysteriously light
as the winners steal
07 08 04
Poem by poem t'ward wit-eclipse
A pro-war bard is losing steam.
The Muses have deserted him...
Could be the company he keeps.
07 07 04
"Reading Spengler is like watching Romanticism train wreck into Modernism."
"The earliest poets were pretty small."