I want to be beautiful like the worm inside the thistle and I want a good, hard, unpolitical crying jag wherein I shall weep for life within the life.
I deliver a weather report. Today will be a high gravity world without adequate language for death and dying. Late in the afternoon someone will ring a bell.
Spring. Phooey. Sugar poems are written on all continents. Easy to glow rapturous about the outward things but it’s also the season of ghost maples. No one’s writing about them. Too hard I guess. Now that spring’s here I want to lie down on the wet leaves that spent winter under the snow. You can’t explain this to anybody. They’re all dancing around like Percy Shelley.
No. No. No. No. This is a Shelley free zone. If we must have a poet let it be Auden:
“Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.”
Let us pretend to cheer, the work of all sowers and gardeners. There’s always another story and we can mostly keep it to ourselves.
Planet of the Blind 