( via / me )

Sunday Bloody Sunday.

"X

Pristine and ultimate stone of groundless
adventure has just died
soul and all, October lodging with child.
From three months of absence, ten of sweet.
How destiny,
mitred monodactyl, dies laughing.

How behind they oust pairs
of opposites. How number peeks
from under every avatar.

How whales plunge to doves.
How the latter cleave their beaks
cubiquitous to the third wing.
How we saddle up, before monotonous haunches.

We tow ten months toward ten,
toward one more beyond.
Two at least are still in diapers.
And the three of absence.
And gestation's nine.

There is not the slightest violence.
The patient sits up
and seated preens tranquil pomades."

--Magda Bogin's Trilce

Kashmir.

"The writer's way is rough and lonely, and who would choose it while there are vacancies in more gracious professions, such as, say, cleaning out ferryboats?" --Dorothy Parker

How the Gipsy was Born.