If we are serious, we find it difficult to assess a work of art, because the art is in the concealment of its meaning, its manner, and its purpose. Because of this, I allow the pieces of a work of art to accumulate upon me, like dust in a room left closed for decades because someone dear to me died there and I do not wish to experience that death again, let alone forever and again. 

So it is with trepidation that I strew a few words about Dawn Nelson-Wardrope's “Remnants of the Red Ribbon Sect.” I will begin by noting I have no idea how two visual poets of such mastery as Dawn and her brother Stephen can be birthed from the same spring.

calamity is the whisper of a heart 

still throbbing after all these many forgotten years 

precarious, you might say 

thinking of cavities 

the sweetest being

the wettest 

my monsoon thoughts elapse across perimeters 

kinda like kissing a kat and the consequences thereof 

what is right is whatever it is we ever do 

I sing with the slightest voice so 

you might not hear it 

unless you lean into the breadth of it 

and the whole sense of it 

close enough to inhale 

its slightly putrid

The word comes rough out of the body. A wind. Constriction. Friction makes the sound. We all hate speech because it forces us to believe we are human, because we are forced into the human horde. The only way to control it, to control the word, is to write it. To draw it.

Last night, I attended the opening reception for a retrospective of Robert Grenier's poetry at Southfirst in Brooklyn.

In the end, there is no beginning. Everything has always starts long before we realize it.

We have now moved but a week since the day Trump was informally elected President of the United States,* and it seems as if my entire life has occurred since those dark hours. As the realization of the end game congealed in my head, a huge sense of dread permeated my body. Only sleep took it away, and I dream dreams that are mostly nightmares but always rich and interesting.

The poem, an isolated fiction, doesn't breathe, but it sings.

See a seen. A shape inviolate of wonder often has possi bilities unthought. Numbers expressed are an orb extended. Rays recall an orches tral set. The musician can do whatnot, exploring music.

The Last Pages of My Mother's Decades of Diaries

Tonight, I went in search of Shirley Temple, but I could not find her. In the last week, I read the account my mother wrote about Shirley Temple Black, by this point the US ambassador to Ghana and my father's supervisor. Black was traveling to California, where I am from, and my mother made sure my father gave her my grandmother's name and number. The two later spoke on the phone.

Geof Huth, "The Dim and Wild West" (Albany, NY, 14 August 2011)

I likely do not believe in wholeness, depending instead on fragments that I might arrange in some manner to suggest constellation if not a completeness. 

So it is that I have read the tiny observations of Olivia Dresher (a writer and publisher of literary fragments) for many years now, on Twitter. Hers are quiet contemplations of a person involved in the process of thinking and feeling in an active way.

The work in twelve parts is an explanation of layers in the context of human churn: 

1. the physical being that is the city performed as a piece of earth representing the dehumanized view of a city as viewed from space; 

2.

See a seen. 

A shape inviolate of wonder often has possi bilities unthought. 

Numbers expressed are 

an orb extended. Rays 

recall an orches 

tral set. The musician 

can do whatnot, exploring 

music.
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