--Ted Berriganfor SandyWinter crisp and the brittleness of snowas like make me tired as not. I go mymyriad ways blundering, bombastic, draggedby a self that can never be still, pushedby my surging blood, my reasoning mind.I am in love with poetry. Every way I turnthis, my weakness, smites me. A glassof chocolate milk, head of lettuce, dark-ness of clouds at one o'clock obsess me.I weep for all of these or laugh.By day I sleep, an obscurantist, lostin dreams of lists, compiled by my selffor reassurance. Jackson Pollock RenÈRilke Benedict Arnold I watchmy psyche, smile, dream wet dreams, and sigh.At night, awake, high on poems, or pillsor simple awe that loveliness exists, my listsflow differently. Of words bright redand black, and blue. Bosky. Oubliette. Dis-severed. And O, alasTime disturbs me. Always minute detailfills me up. It is 12:10 in New York. In Houstonit is 2 pm. It is time to steal books. It’stime to go mad. It is the day of the apocalpysethe year of parrot fever! What am I saying?Only this. My poems do containwilde beestes. I write for my Ladyof the Lake. My god is immense, and lonelybut uncowed. I trust my sanity, and I am proud. IfI sometimes grow weary, and seem still, neverthelessmy heart still loves, will break.
2024-01-26
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