Yesterday I watched Kinch cut into himself
with a knife and pour peroxide
on the wounds until he was huffing and trembling -- and I enjoyed
this. Both of us did. There's a story in Winesburg, Ohio
that talks about how, when the apple orchard
s are picked clean, all that remain on the trees are the twisted apples, too knotted and ugly to be sold
. But these apples, in the story, are also the most delicious and once a townsperson tastes their sweetness they are unable to go back to eating the round market apples. So that is a little like me, I flatter myself to think. I prefer the twisted apples
, the stranger pleasures.
In books, you can find a justification for any barbarism
if you're willing to look for it.
On another note, I've spent the morning reading old diaries
, sifting through peculiar poems I can't remember writing.
Harold Bloom, resplendent in his folds of ample flesh,
the fifty-ninth reincarnation of Akshobhya, Unmovable Buddha of Wisdom,
sits lotus on the bodies of lesser scholars.