nominally Ted Berrigan patched together from words or if words don’t serve the re mains of half a thought. Oligarchs float past and future in the rising wind of Oligarchs who press words to dogmatic shape. I like to think that Berrigan drew a line and drawn to it. basic fewness of of oligarchs serves shaded. their words stand in for an object outside not in. after everything else nothing begins now.
poems, fireflies...