Tuesday, September 1, 2015


And this is the way I write  -  wired iron of the
demi-sphere and halfway between places too. The
citadel sits on the high edge  -  no charm there, it
rests right where they built it. Yet the stupid tourists
come, with cameras and maps, to see the spots they've
read about : travel magazines, on-board flight-guides to
no-where-places at all. Screw that and let them have it.
And do you know what's buried in Grant's Tomb? Any
genuine, abiding, human interest, that's who.
For now, I yell. I am something like the engineer's soundboard
Marshall Mathers, but kept under wraps and held silent. 'He
thrashed about in local paroxysms of self- destruction.' That's
what the profile papers said. Psychological brine-water words
and all of the qualification that goes with it. I want to build walls,
walls on which to hang things, walls that will stay in place.
It's not mere words, it's more the relationship between the writer
and the reader. Invent again the teletype. Invent again the linear
line. On Tuesday, every other, the postman still delivers the issue.
Thank the Lord and the USA for that; appreciate what you have.
The cinder-blocks have ulcerated tumors, and I'm sure the
building itself will soon be collapsed as things just fall away.
You know about that center that cannot hold.
We make denominations telltale : reading Faulkner in a blaze
of haze, trying to pronounce those heavy words. OK then, what 
would I recommend? A flash-tag recipe book of cooking fish
and tossing salads. Green. Glacial melting. Fire-pan cooking.
Link Wray buzzboard. And all those crazy, hidden words.

No comments: