Sunday, May 14, 2017

Jim Leftwich, Smaller bundles -- Cram

Smaller bundles -- Cram

Dash them as presented to dredge, coax nor choice of soup, his own inconsequential scratchings mimic those who never absolved. As though a book thought, with no nerves to give, was junket upon the poem, circa 1870.

Her flowers flow in secret. Delivery house, seeing a real word, even at night in the heat of August, missing that privacy. The obvious ribs of Camelot and poetry -- the communic - understood the world of wizards as a craft.

Syntax of Amherst shatters energy and collapses into hymn-riddle. True into words is waged into riot. Constructions mask a clue. Variants mask complete hand-sewn signs. Discoverer was explorer was triangular and missing. Firm and still as the private lexicon of collage.

Letters convince us to improvise. Mirrors choose our melodies. Puzzles a pair of weathers.

House became impersonation to safeguard around the kind. The open door changes the letters. They sway and yield to outfox the plan of prose.

A witch, when in the toes of the poem -- it comes up through the feet, said both Miro and Lorca -- the tone invents the eye. Dancing always striking poems shrinking -- inverts the nose. Everts the rose. No other poem than in the inner coils of melody uncooking in the corridor. Would the rediscovered past instruct at noon where the attic pays homage thus far.

Allen Tate: "Cotton Mather would have burned her for a witch."

Sound a sense in language to button the saucer -- advance it convinced of leaving. Lived right here in the hex of the righteous night. Lacuna on the moon... archaeology of the brittle, open window... portfolio in ghoul-seminar copse... deals had limped the letter new.

Songbird letter to sudden horribly Amherst. In place kept to stay at scholars. Sitting on the road like the footprint of a tree... collage of gates and exits...

According to the visual model, the rift in holding radical poets, even the movement of the toes, from within the object poetry thus finds a subtraction of the critical volcano. Fumerole more interior than learned, what has happened is conditional, indispensable space lodges in dissipation and retreat. Honed remarks guard the stolen joys. Poets will have to consider the short sorties between power and the eye. To see Rimbaud is to see the Amherst recluse. At the rim of the sea we open the other secret tomb. Pages exult poetic moments. In difficulty such as excited verse. As writing is a phase of the phrase. Rimbaud in the sea among semicolons succinctly drifts. Behind the idiosyncratic ambiguity, clearly "you" in her piano, time yet who loves the hours joined in long-world poetry -- it is midnight in the poem in any era.

Mysterious footstep, birds. Evening marshmallow in earsight of the spirit. Unprecedented isthmus, who could think, unhappy letter-scarf yodeling in a cloud. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our private worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our public worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our anti-worlds. The uselessness of poetry continues to trouble us in our arable worlds.

Believe the camera and withhold the solitude in your hat. Filigree of probability blossoms evanescence. Ahead of the hummingbird across the river we are writing a new index of alcoves among the mountain ranges. The long scarecrow disappears into pizzas of attention. We have no letters and very few futures. It's as if therein the puzzle had no idea. When Dickinson howls, you listen. A glue-infested language lives behind our thoughts. A box of candles... the play of coiling minuscules... constructed spells glow like messengers on a piano... orchestrated knots tantalize and reveal...

jim leftwich