Simple Theories

  Rimbaud stood propped against the ice as would be expected. Blue as peace time refrigerators, yet still warm to the touch. He had corsairs in mind, with the courage of abutments. Pressured to succeed further than beyond the most word eye, live until dead, so they say. And the slave trade slave trade slave trade, a ratiocination of perplexity for a mind seeking vowels and colours athwart world impatience and time situated outside of time, inside deluge. And thus finally thus purls of explanation settle in. And we think about code.

  Get up in saturday, prior to sunday, day after friday. Light, a fire. Over yonder, a horizon seeps into view. Sentiment of dawn, sunrise, an establishment of Day in beginning. What are the odds? The colour purple, the colour blue. Against a backdrop of postwar oak leaves—green, brown, and other important hues—Jack Spicer became a poet of the ages. This significant occurence quantified nothing in exacting measure. He spoke to Lorca and reread Rilke. Those who he disliked he loved with a stretching universe. He enjoyed the commonal of magic. His poems, since then (Death and all) , have become tips for winning the seventh race at Hialeah, or any fit paroxysm. Naturally tho still oddly, he didn’t believe in Florida, but Hialeah Race Track just proved drill, and the relations of the junior and senior poets so untested. We shall speak further of exploits. Red ink shall never bear the weight. Especially. Sundays that should be Saturdays, but at least aren’t Monday or god forbid Tuesday....