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                                                                                           chores to do

                                                                                      ‘what’s up with him?’
                                                                                      ‘oh, he’s all crotchety;

                                                                                      he was up all night
                                                                                      writing poetry’ up
                                                                                           all night

                                                                                      writing poetry
                                                                                      what a magnificent way

                                                                                      to live
                                                                                      and die

 

                                     hinge                                                                      hinge

 

                                          chores to do

                     “why is he all cross and tetchy?”
                     “oh he was up half the night
                           writing poetry”

                     he struggled with a moment
                           into the inky night
                     it grained and knotted
                           and textured into
                           hounds-tooth
                           fainting away

                     the lamp went off
                     and only when the shapes
                           outside the window
                           turned ink-green

                     did the cadences and
                           parentheses fall away
                           and the moment
                           sat clean and perfect
                     in the middle of the page

 

 

 

I started writing in 1976 when I was 16 years old; the nurture and raising of that seed had been long and occasional through the tender hands of JD Salinger, Andre Gide and Batman; I have NO embarrassment in saying that the midwife to my actually putting pen to paper was John-Boy Walton – the quoted words are from the first episode of the Waltons (I think)

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being wormhole: swifts test the chasm of sky
death wormhole: Michael Redford: // someone missing
doing wormhole: Saturday
green & living & windows wormhole: clouds
night wormhole: 1965
poetry wormhole: Moebius strip
speech wormhole: ‘spilled out of the nurses’ / quarters …’
texture wormhole: sat
writing wormhole: thar she perched

 

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