At Long Last

the semester ends. the magazine beat goes on. for anyone interested in a story of an awkward ending to an weak poetry workshop, check out this post. something like that.

may x-mas not be killing you all. at least not as much as the pink-freeze that has been this December so far in Chicago. just a bit unseasonable.

in honor of closure & hope in poetry:

Taught. As a wire which reaches. A silver wire which
reaches from the end of the beautiful as if elsewhere. A
metaphor. Metaphors are not for humans.

The wires dance in the wind of the noise our poems make.
The noise without an audience. Because the poems were written
for ghosts.

The ghosts the poems were written for are the ghosts of the
poems. We have it second-hand. They cannot hear the noise
they have been making.

Yet it is not a simple process like a mirror or a radio. They
try to give us circuits to see them, to hear them. Teaching an
audience.

The wires in the rose are beautiful.

--- Jack Spicer, "4" from "A Textbook of Poetry"