texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to Volodymyr Bilyk at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
haibun || Sheila E. Murphy
Boy man chances how he weathers what his father cannot (understand). A rapture of a moment of this younger mercy chaps the legroom of a faux drop of old blood somewhere. Nothing is for keeps. The father mourns what has not happened yet. The mother overdoes her fate. As if she turned to god in her spare time. The metronome once washed in vinegar eludes our pride. I used to practice, and I used to teach. I used to organize the lattices. My only reach was cured by what I had invented out of time. And now at last I'm young. I take my prior temperature and throw it out. I take tempura from the fridge and I deform it. I allude to betters as if they had occurred because of me. The word solipsis used to buffet me. I wrote to Jim who does not live now. I informed him that the pressure valve might have been swatted deaf. He used to symphony when I behaved. I'd go back and reprehense a self half customed. The way a voice when young was honey blond. The way she sounded when I worked at my devaluation. Now and then, the fingering for A-flat chides me. I think platinum. I think gold is work. I grow accustomed to the silver on my sofa, and I cry. I watched the woman who gave birth to me mourn who her talent was, and I was swayed by rationales I tried to earn. They could not fit me, but I stretched reversely into them. What does not hurt may not be true, I thought.
Continuum, maternal instinct thought to be protection, that same inclination merely reflex