Friday, April 9, 2010

833. PINCUS BARKER

PINKUS BARKER
I am dissolved in flames.
I have left my notebook
at home. To itemize for you:
it is blue and on its cover is a picture of
some buildings now long gone. The binding
has become quite weak, so that the pages move,
sometimes up and down but most often sideways.
The hand on each of the pages is my own - black pen,
lines and lines of words. Here and there a drawing.
Of something. Whatever. Tales, poems, stories, notes.
-
I cannot usually be this clear abut anything.
The simple cataloging just now done has been enough
to drive me quite and veritably nuts. Distracted.
Annoyed. Usually, by some form of a vague,
broad-ranging intuition do I do such things.
For me, my fellows, life is simpler that way.

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