Life is the precious thing.
Word’s their mere adornment.
Oh, but what an adornment!
So much wider than gold.
Posted in New York Diary, Poetics
Height of summer, and
the creative class is out
out walking their
children as they’d
walk their dogs.
Some have hired help.
Others not. Some
have grandparents. Or
at least they look
like grandparents.
But who’s to tell
in this day and
age of lively sperm
and wombs for rent?
The pigeons thought
I’d brought a snack.
This, too, is predictable.
To want, for anything,
for water, a notion
antique as the
nonexistent fountains.
Walt Whitman. Sketch by unknown artist in Whitman Notebook. (c) The Smithsonian Institution.
In the spirit of the Master (Whitman, not James), we are pleased to announce our New York Diary, a series of occasional prose poems.
This is a bit of a departure from our political and financial emphasis that’s dominated this blog the last few years. Well, man can’t live on bile alone, can he? And something along these lines was always intended to be part of this site, but after the reception of the one prose poem, on David Beckham in his underwear in springtime and other things, it kind of fell away. We’ll give it another go here.
Inspirations and Aspirations 