to us, to you schoolyard stones paving stones bridge stones stone apples sick of sea from war to war
Swift as a telegram (chips from Osip Mandelstam)
accusing Mandelstam ‘Jew is’ a rough homespun towel the velocity of the clouds an Ibsen problem swift as a telegram viscid and mealy two chairs younger sister of death shameless burning Russian mushrooms a truce with Darwin love the Moslem enamels horizon has been abolished
Luck took a wrong turn (prongs from Jokha Alharthi)
oil rich in her uncle’s home his father’s slave ‘nothing, oh Lord’ another spool a single sweet coconut bar ‘you’re too tall’ still half talking in sleep soap had never touched his body ten boys will luck took a wrong turn
A spoon, your aunt (kernels from Henry James)
all silver and starch his plausibility frequently soundless ‘ah, you weak thing’ a spoon, your aunt destitute and impossible
The wheels will fall off
During the span of a significant birthday a few days ago, I was spoon fed several tablespoons of hard to swallow gloop: First tablespoon. Lydmilla phoned with good wishes, also explained: “At your age there are no prints left on the tips of your fingers.” I hadn’t known this. Second tablespoonful. Richie phoned with congratulations,(…)
For a short hour (chips from Fyodor Dostoevsky)
for a short hour old age is not always a blessing not cunning love at cock’s crow many many Betsy’s not a bird by one, by two forever playing cards a window to myself compounded by trifles a fly could break me with a wing in need of nothing but geraniums as good as(…)
Sleeps sleeps eats eats (hymns from Mark Twain)
wisely or not and the Holy Land a steamer will smooth sea $1250 $5 a day in gold never a celebrity and scores of and mud about anything so mustash’d their own vile verbs was sneered at sleeps sleeps eats eats broken-nosed old fellows as high as you can the grave of(…)
‘To write and write, like a wheel or machine’
At work in this hermitage (formerly Aladdin’s cave) as the wider world closes down: No lightening in a bottle. No convulsion. No brow-mopping. Without provocation. Without resolutions. Luster-free. No black ants. No brown moths. No biting irony. Acid-free conversation. What’s an author (who already has Oblomov-omatic tendencies) to do? “To write at night,” thought Oblomov;(…)
Quibbles could (filings from Eugene Vodolazkin)
kl. 715 a string of sledges about Poles including the fish knife ibid 12 quibbles could footnotes became the short word they has rabbit fur hat central Russian breeze
Born to fly backwards (gusts from Edmund Gosse)
born to fly backwards not young, solitary a decay in energy Rousseau forbade irregular pleasures the brethren simply neither knew nor cared the green swallowed bold carnation and black tresses denizens of Babylon of one mind arrogance of potpourri her high bed long, long unfixed, uncertain in a cold fog serene and sensible no(…)
