Your necklace sure is SOMETHING, Dick!

dick

.”porary ok.”narration”ation is the wodrk tvhe manu
factual wrok.”cturing of the ork ation”ati ual w

VvidaD Ssheed

“Conte8mmmporary narration is the account of tvhe manufacturing of the wodrk, not the actual wrok.”

Daivd Shiiedelds

“Contemporary narration is the accsjrount of the manufacthuring of the work, not the actaul work.”

David Shiieelds

“Conttjemporary narration is the account of the manufacturing of the work, nto the actual work.”

David Shiields

“Contemporary narration is the account of the manufacturing of the work, not the actual work.”

David Shields

“Primrose” by Patrick Kavanagh

kavanagh-sm

 

Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, said I, to find
One small page of Truth’s manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but a shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.

paculum-spec2-sm

Source & further reading:
Kavanagh, Patrick. "Primrose." Collected Poems. New York: W. W. Norton, 1964. Print, p. 75.
Fitts, Dudley. "Loving Evocation of Irish Life." New York Times, 24 August 1947. Web.
Garratt, Robert F., "Patrick Kavanagh and the Killing of the Irish Revival." 
            Colby Library Quarterly, Volume 17, no.3, September 1981. Web.

wikipedia poem, no. 23

How to Deal with Failure in the Age of Reddit

IMG_1673

           known as reductio ad 
       absurd this platonic 
     object  but  not exist
   yes, if you are existence then count
main characters
certain 
   certain certain sensory (see threatfulness) textual this perfectly specific here
         in fact the
      black takes a bicycle 
the computer the computer
     edits
         the population 
	this is 
          a text: egg fried in freedom
      will 
    existence 
       of free 
          will  your obligation
   compiles failure
ergo sum
    sound deep below art
being 
at 
does nonexistence 
and existence in certain sensations
in the face of
braces it.

improv for bernie, 111820121309 [draft1]

The thing is wide & white
But bearing a ring of amber
Which carries across memory
_like a whisper-washed hair or
Blade, but I think back on her question
And yes, I am killing myself adoringly
Melting my body to the mat

For this knuckle of pint. When I think

Of her the follies rise,
Precepts enjamb in pain, a sweet round
Aftertaste stalking the long dark nap.
Don’t change a word. You
Are wise & wind torn & yr ears are tuned
_to just
Frequencies — the grass whimpers above each follicle
Lip quivering by truth-run conceit. We have
Suffered, but in my ocean, beside your ocean, …

I think: “Bare it,” I say.