Paul Celan on 7th Avenue

I know. I know. It’s been an awfully long epidemic of  Fold blog postings … dozens, hundreds maybe. I’m well aware that not one reader has responded with any excitement (Oh my poor sad folds!) but do appreciate (well-mannered readers that you are) that not one of you has blasted me either. Not one.  (Oh(…)


Sweet sad (plashes from Emile Zola)

asleep behind atop of the piles of vegetables fluorescence of vegetable oaths of the awakened his ears once more intestinal membranes like lacework atmosphere of raw meat and fat ‘Pauline, go and find your mother’   and miserly his face turned yellow such a hole in his purse the same old coat turkey or goose(…)