Poetry will make it if we stick to exciting prologues redshifted to vented arrangements of tonic chimes, which will include plastic chance and a hard won vocabulary. Your betters, including Galway Kinnell, Amy Clampitt, thrones of professors, and the weird excuse of the greeting card, will posit exact change in your dynamic world. A new world turned frisky, that is, with global positioning setting the word's universal pace in the globally global universe. Think of it, hayseed: we have tears some days, guttural laughs on others, and Garrison Keilor is our tall mood of a friend. Imagine teaching all that to freshmen while stating the case for Whitman's bullshit. Meanwhile, all the Melvins are invited for dinner, you the consequence. That means Poet Laureates are loose, and spreading like Klingons.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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