On examination, the map proves wrong. That land could never offer beyond colours perplexingly arrayed. It presented flow but also stricture. It meant deeds and dying, in colloquy with estrangement. Thru the years and asseverations, the horizon only anticipated another day. No river could keep up with the weight of such hope.Those days became these days, a rumble from the ocean to enforce stratified polis overarching the usual strictures called life as we know it. The map shows boundaries of water and sand, direct gasping at potentials, and a language full of shiny red fruit. The imaginations grow succulent while Rimbaud himself discusses images of mazy life. Excess receives documentation. The superfund dilates with express exchange: Countries go to war for crap, minarets look like smokestacks, charity receives bad cess, a royal splatter covers all. These noble castle walls smell like direct payment. The perceived flames have no heft at all.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
Comments