Monday, December 5, 2011

the misfit, the judge


Open little box

We kiss your bottom and cover
Keyhole and key

The whole world lies crumpled in you
It resembles everything
Except itself

Not even your clear-sky mother
Would recognize it any more

The rust will eat your key
Our world and us there inside
And finally you too

We kiss your four sides
And four corners
And twenty-four nails
And anything else you have

Open little box

by Vasko Popa

I'm writing a paper on Flannery O'Connor and Cormac McCarthy, the Grotesque, the Gothic. Violence, intelligence, religiosity.

Yesterday over Twitter I had a nice chat with Kelle Groom after we simultaneously posted about Francesca Woodman. Kelle is very lovely, & said that an excerpt from her forthcoming memoir would be in the same Ploughshares as my poem in the spring.

The Fader did a long profile on our mister Cass McCombs. Looking forward to seeing him & his crew over New Year's.

Remember sleep? I remember that.

1 comment:

aL min said...

Thanks for this.

Don't remember sleep at all. Seems like a bad dream.