Steven Ross Smith
fluttering. 36 postscript. for Robert Kroetsch dinner at Marbles. trying not to lose them in the shuffle of referents. and after pitch and fork at the circular table scholars and word skullers walking back to Kroetsch HQ. place of the story-like gathering of tongues. we are aphoristic, appositive. apostolic. though not apologetic for our faith. the apporhea aura aurora in full evidence. we are in session giving tribute. incessant nodding to the tributary with marvellous acuities, insistences. mind going almost numb so we stop for coffee. start again to peruse the poetics of the small-hearted writer. rat-a-tat-rita. writing her way out of the picture. RK as GS. Gertrude Steining his story in drag. Dragland losing his text then finding and refusing and dragging out his ending. Draper a stuttering host, hostage to Stan's restanding and the uproar of his wordings. wordswords honed though no battle is here but the river. this flow of love, keen as a blade, for the high plains drafter of those first frisky words on the frosted fields or crossdressing a story in which she is absent, disappeared into the coulee, the treeline. beeline. belonging to the long line, line of longing. song. buzz of lust busting loose. I would lick where they work at their nectar, my tongue seeking the sweetening perfection the word cleaves. the Lang wedging story. behind. bees hiding in her thighs. hornybook. donnybrook. Robbybook. rickety-rack. yackety-yak, don't come back, (Coasters '54). O that hot sax. O that singing telegram sent by no one, sent from absence, to find itself in the buzzing when I close my eyes.
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