Monday, February 16, 2015

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So much bad art; I make much myself. A numbers game; it can't snow every day. Then there's the scope of flow; one's landscape is another's ski resort. And don't discount the need to stumble, fart stupidly, be more than obvious. An awful poem -The NY Review of Books. I've always hated this publication - a good read. Another poem regarding the white page: full of muted agony and tempered ecstasy. I'm happy for it; I realize what's missing, what terrifies: if the writer's skill at projecting life upon the emptiness, then imagine what they must do to people.

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