sure
i believe
those are people
restore color with light she says
sitting across from him in stagebright
Streamed live on Jan 18, 2019
legs crossed at the knee pouring water
and coffee perhaps a xanax before
permission and intention matter he says
elevated above seven black angels
four white hands
black shoes
collar
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.
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.
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.
The greasy, banister-cool
Hand props up some very mediocre
Problems
Type the word
Face
Enter
The computer does the rest
This
Is no way to live.
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.