As a youth with bear claws, I influenced Robert Lowell. He was 907 years old, I was a trifle. Inklings dripped from his poetry page. I told him there were eagles in the bay, sleeping on forgotten foundries slipping silently into wet regret. He said he was busy with broccoli.
I told him broccoli invents a green spire that consumes the thought of Mars (the planet). He said his wife radiated in a plop. I asked if he knew what plop was. He drank himself insane, in reply. The year was 1959. I never knew which wife he meant.
Insane is not so bad, when you are gifted, without gunk, I advocated like polis. Robert Lowell told Robert Grenier that a poem has exclusion built in. Robert Grenier scribbled something that changed the horizon. Project Poetry ate a third of all known adjectives until steam in Greenland melted the thought of something else. Everybody has to wear underwear.
We all relate to grey clouds, with foam backing.
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