THE I-THING Without empathizing yourself, our self- regard ran speedtraps. I was a blast so sheer to gather, a needing that ran odd, the saner blended thread-bare with popular, superimposed from noting nothing remands a second empathizing. For Our babies started to watch. So as if of sheer effort these were the bass simulcasts to seem porous, bending light on the end table. And when that ran a fever... maverick to the ex-sun..... I got cluttered with secrecy. A toss examiner. Blinded. Or blindfolded. Volume One Index |
The East Village Poetry Web Jack Kimball |