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A Chill in Summer
Food starts to stray from food. Meat, pigs, lettuce, severing into slimy strands. Babies pop up all over the place. Anxious dads carrying babies up and down the aisles of restaurants and convenience stores. I was reading a novel. People were spending money left and right on exorbitant landscaping projects where perfectly fine gardens once stood. Pouring thousands of dollars into making functional bathrooms pretty objects of design. I was in need of Rothkos chapel, in need of Morton Feldmans Tibetan Mountain flute. Moroseness, bearing into my skull like an eerie arrowhead shot by Morton Feldman. What holds me together turning into a dinky, fragmented poem about fractured space, the kind of poem whose criticism is more interesting than the poem. In need of Prokofievs musical oranges, of Bartok to twist a saber into the rock. Giant C-4 aircrafts plowing the skies of Western Massachusetts. Learning to admire the enemy was not something I could do, nor making of the fist an essay on hope. One had woven a stem rope to wrap around the throat. It was then I found the great one wandering around the Target parking lot, looking slightly lost. |
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| James Grinwis has work out or forthcoming in Sentence, Quarter After Eight, Caketrain, Poetry International, Verse, Redactions, The Literary Review, and Souwester. He is founding editor of Bateau, a new letterpress journal and chapbook press. |
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Date of Publication: 29 Oct 2007 |
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