Sunday, March 9, 2008

Ontology My Ass

Bibliography is the only real art / science. Facts in other fields are simply hollow. Good bibliography is an easy ticket to heaven. Possibly astronomy is as divine. Course the skies are simple things next to the world of books.

The winds of Worcester roar across every certitude. Charles Olson became a definition, with a cousin in the hills, a memory for instant deliberation, and a kind of posture that struck the rooftop of a now famous sky. Such wizardly recycling of condition inveighs against the easy Harvard process, so that Gloucester, 2 syllables, becomes a central point of trade and willingness. Winds blow from the east, to the point of bringing colonies of new suits to the forest grange. This is true. It is in books.

Books are in trouble, however. Elizabeth Bishop, the only American to win that prize. The then Frank O’Hara, first of Grafton, then a state to himself. A chuckle called Robert Benchley. An antiquarian society that outnumbered Harvard…

Let’s go back to the cosseting myth. A string becomes matter, unless someone is looking. Waves are particles until we expect as much. Later, that same day…

But another day, with this rhyme, and the festering examination of culture as concerned citizens dispute the relative functional necessity of other plans for the aforesaid landed state of prime living possibility.

Very seriously told me once that Bishop was a very good poet but 3rd rate at best, whereas Stanley Kunitz is for all time! Ha. Imagine! He's up in heaven right now, sitting next to Dante! Frank & Olson can't not be lost in that scheme of things.

The future, dated 17th century, is looking bright if not good. But the colonies continued to spread.

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