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marginalia The parade at
center page isn’t much Blah at best, its
paradise hides behind a rhythm
of nothingness in superfluous kips
from line to line but in
annotations hidden artists lie whose sly nods
to the gods of lip pip missing mosaics
of color whiffs of liberation
and mystic waggery Like when the
president in an armored car was en route to the
Serbo-Croatian Social Club to give a near-endless
speech about nothing we shouted criticisms
and held our noses Our Latin,
French and Italian farragoes prepare places
for allusion; lost histories season the
tasteless stew of humdrummery and free old dinner
guests from the pages |
Words are asleep I awake and scribe dream reviews as mere prose stirs in the word bowl from its
outside All my cheap shots engage other ages of peoples’ writ in pencil and ink so I think I’m not a lone stale wit Flavors of the past aren’t lost, are in misted margins saying their names again at last |
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