May I, for the sake of argument,
\nimply\u00a0that something is unusual
\nif not wrong\u00a0with our present state?<\/p>\n
Smoking by the window bears no fruit,
\nbrings only the accustomed view of paper
\nbirds scudding in the wind, grey skies
\nand blue ski tights scissoring away.<\/p>\n
True, we do have our hands. There is<\/em> fleeting Already trinkets and do-dads, stolen *<\/p>\n Originally inspired by the French poet Jules Laforgue (or so I imagined at the time, 1963), this was a first jejune dig at a vein which I still find intriguing. See my recent <\/em>Paraphernalia<\/a>.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n Howard, my roomate during my first year at Beloit College, also aspired to be a writer. But he was honest enough to complain and to critique this poem on the grounds of his own frustration: “all I can get my characters to do is light another cigarette”.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" May I, for the sake of argument, imply\u00a0that something is unusual if not wrong\u00a0with our present state? Smoking by the window bears no fruit, brings only the accustomed view of paper birds scudding in the wind, grey skies and blue ski tights scissoring away. True, we do have our hands. There is fleeting pleasure in … <\/p>\n
\npleasure in the brewing of tea, groping for
\na last cigarette. But have we only the transcient
\nproduce of what we harvest by hands?<\/p>\n
\nform our past, inanimate objects lavished
\nwith undue affections, clutter our rooms,
\nannotating former, ancient follies,
\nAnd, already, squinting ahead with no perspective
\nwe see little more than prolonged
\naccumulation\u00a0of these amputated allusions<\/p>\n