Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Crumbled Grey Fedora

For a few moments tonight we sat out on the front porch in the sweet-smelling-darkness. Casual brief conversations. Brendan related a portion of his day at school. A few neighbors walked their dogs. The sky pearled with potential rain.
Began preliminary drafts on the Bach poem, that old idea from a year ago. Using a heightened experimental approach I gain a stronger idea of reconstructing the awkward phrasing in my head. The broken antique vase mended hastily with glue. Fragmented experience projecting the full picture. Pixels of pure color.
As a further discussion of modern contemporary poetry I closed out the term a few weeks ago reading my “Chaos” poem to three classes— which worked well to my advantage. A common misconception can be drawn to two or three short stanzas; through deductive reasoning an implication of an auto accident emerges—an unintended element. Afterwards, recently, I believe the scene has been spliced out through simple adjustment of a strategic word.
112/ Bus stop off highway 249. He sits. Crumpled grey fedora twisting in his hands. Beside a make-shift memorial. A cross: painted in yellow and green. The name Julio in broad, white letters.

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