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A noisy one she is, her mom was a shill in the USSR, her voice follows me everywhere, a shrill shill she was, pushy, even here in my cabin on the good ship Isabelle out of Stockholm bound for Riga, her voice, ‘the buffet is open,’ ‘lottery tickets are still available,’ haunts me, this cabin womb-like tomb-like, imagine crossing the seas from Senegal in the hold of the ‘Alabama’, this cabin might… Read More
So I tried to write a long stream-of-consciousness poem-like thing. I did not work. I am not Ron Silliman or probably James Joyce either. Although I feel sure if I rewrote DELTA a few more tens of times it could get close. It seems like sacrificing a week of my vaca to do that would not be wise use of my time. However I’ve decided to post it anyway because it does pretty… Read More