Was it Don Marquis, the journalist slash poet who said something like:
"Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a [??] into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo." ?
It was either him or someone else, of that I'm sure. As for what goes between the brackets, it could be a feather, or a penny. I don't remember. I could look it up, but I don't feel like it, and neither will anyone else. I've been saying that a lot in this blog, haven't I, he asked himself. And no one was watching, and no one pointed his finger and laughed.
And it was all the same to him, he thought, examining the underside of the left side of his chin as he faced himself. I was reminded today of a line from a poem I've always liked: which went something like, "his carnation preceded him like a small explosion...". Does one need a full stop (period, he said, adjusting his glasses) after an ellipsis? Are there two ells in ellipsis? Well naturally there were two that time.
Well, archy, having looked through a sickeningly narrow yet noisy slice of Blogdom, I see that Andy Warhol was dead wrong. We cannot possibly all have fifteen minutes, each. And that wouldn't make us happy anyway. So God has rendered unto us all an infinity for the splatterings of our vanity. He has given every fool, including myself, his own mountain, her own village square, her own shiny and dazzling printing press of many-colors. We will hoist ourselves up and over our own petards, show ourselves naked (some of us quite literally) in front of the entire world, free of charge.
God has seen Andy's bluff and raised him a trillionfold, archy. The greatest libraries in the world pale to this blinking box next to my socks. The poet Kenneth Patchen once wrote, with a pen, presumably: "The impatient explorer invents a box in which all journeys may be kept."
That box is this box. Windows are boxes. Morrison was right, too, we're all voyeurs. The really sickening thing is, though, the person whose private parts we peer at through our little windows on the world is us, is you, is me, he said.
But no one was listening.
"Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a [??] into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo." ?
It was either him or someone else, of that I'm sure. As for what goes between the brackets, it could be a feather, or a penny. I don't remember. I could look it up, but I don't feel like it, and neither will anyone else. I've been saying that a lot in this blog, haven't I, he asked himself. And no one was watching, and no one pointed his finger and laughed.
And it was all the same to him, he thought, examining the underside of the left side of his chin as he faced himself. I was reminded today of a line from a poem I've always liked: which went something like, "his carnation preceded him like a small explosion...". Does one need a full stop (period, he said, adjusting his glasses) after an ellipsis? Are there two ells in ellipsis? Well naturally there were two that time.
Well, archy, having looked through a sickeningly narrow yet noisy slice of Blogdom, I see that Andy Warhol was dead wrong. We cannot possibly all have fifteen minutes, each. And that wouldn't make us happy anyway. So God has rendered unto us all an infinity for the splatterings of our vanity. He has given every fool, including myself, his own mountain, her own village square, her own shiny and dazzling printing press of many-colors. We will hoist ourselves up and over our own petards, show ourselves naked (some of us quite literally) in front of the entire world, free of charge.
God has seen Andy's bluff and raised him a trillionfold, archy. The greatest libraries in the world pale to this blinking box next to my socks. The poet Kenneth Patchen once wrote, with a pen, presumably: "The impatient explorer invents a box in which all journeys may be kept."
That box is this box. Windows are boxes. Morrison was right, too, we're all voyeurs. The really sickening thing is, though, the person whose private parts we peer at through our little windows on the world is us, is you, is me, he said.
But no one was listening.
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