Sunday, November 14, 2010
Fascinations flip over transition with caustic recklessness. That's called resignation, and it smells like falling. Each word, bent in the canyons of those scented processors, receives conditioned and naturalistic response. It's fair to approach limits with downsized political competence. The city streets look wet. People walk there, amidst the same pronouns as ever. Glen Beck has his hammock ready. This isn't really a poem, Glen.