when Jack Spicer suddenly dictated the following to me by way of an apology, illustrated by Jess:
Let us fake out a frontier—a poem somebody could hide in with a sherriff's posse after him—a thousand miles of it if it is necessary for him to go a thousand miles—a poem with no hard corners, no houses to get lost in, no underwebbing of customary magic, no New York Jew salesmen of amethyst pajamas, only a place where Billy The Kid can hide when he shoots people..The poem. In all that distance who could recognize his face.
Again, from one ghost to another separated by miles
2 comments:
you know, CD
for me there is a "trinity" here:
Spicer, Duncan, Whalen
That's interesting, Ed
real living 'ghosts' seem to have infiltrated.
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