Thoughts …

But how can I be sure of anything in the state in which I find myself? I feel as if extracted from someone else's dream, as if I--the would-be poet--were nothing more than a failed verse written in crabbed script, left adrift in the wake of a passing train, skimming the platform of a deserted…

Advertisements

Housebreaking the Muse: Enter Raymond Queneau

This summer has been regrettably saturated, disruptive, and shambolic. Pulled by life in too many directions, I've been operating in a fog where everything gets some of my attention but never the amount it deserves. It has been, for me, a failed summer. And, oh yes, the world seems to have gotten even madder (are…