this past month--robert creeley and saul bellow died, i heard chris glomski and pierre jorris read, springtime commenced in chicago with the blooming of the forsythia, mercenary troops began gathering in the republic of guinea for some major event, and i continued teaching college students about necessary fictions.
"i have forgotten more than i remember."
this morning i'm thinking about robert duncan's poetry:
"I work at the language as a spring of water works at the rock, to
find a course, and so, blindly. In this I am not a maker of things, but, if
a maker, a maker of a way. For the way in itself."
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