I have accepted it—to live in forgetfulness of myself, For nothing here tries to remember me. I mean, each time I try to live here, the country calls me by a name, forgetfulness— Our ancestors were never called less of the earth and her world.
He insisted on going his own way. In a ferry made of stone. King of the mountain, he yodeled again and again. Snow is a hoax. Goats make good cheese. Bury me inblue.
A fish leaps through a forest of trees. A kid cavorts - parades on the black plain. A small girl arrives at what she believes is a wedding, absorbed in herself- and burns.
With the genius pianist tinkling away The night has passed into a cool, subdued Darkness as soon it will be time to shut this Machine down & get back to resting my Body up as my recent exertions still show
The site is gated, but everyone is welcome. So why hide content behind a form unless it is some- thing like rare recordings or re- search papers? I'm imagining a row of Cadillacs, sunk in the dirt,
For horses to surprise the sun For minus signs and the omnibus performance space inside Neville Chamberlain For perfect angels in this soup For hard dovetails and unnecessary riders of shame
