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He died unable to lift himself above the shoals of everyday life. 

This is the sin of despair.
                                        I speak of course of Mayakovsky.

In the 20th century the best you could say of a person was this. 

The revolution betrayed him
                                             before he betrayed the revolution.


                                                          * * *

Sappho the truth is the part.
                                             You were the last love poet for a long time.

It was in this period that the idea of communism was born.

                                                         * * *

I like the Canto where Ezra tries to fuck a rock.

                                                         * * *

Pasolini loved the party from his youth.
                                                              He preferred the boys with
smooth cheeks.
                          He had to leave Friulia
                                                               to become the Friulian poet.

I think this is a tale of heresy.
                                               In Rome they also had boys
                                                                                            and the party
but with a difference—
                                    no more unoccupied afternoons
                                                                                       and many alleys.

Perverts and militants
                                   learn to keep other relations
                                                                                to windows.

Anyway they kicked him out and only then did he become a true communist.

You will see a theme developing.
                                                    We realize ourselves and die
                                                                                                  in exile.

The party got older and it began to take odd jobs and grow a beard.

This beard was Stalin.
                                   In Rome boys
                                                         with jaws cool and mean enough
to survive the years of lead to come.
                                                         Stalin’s beard ruined it for everyone.


                                                         * * *


Ovid saw this simple fact early on.
                                                      We are subject to invisible and
impersonal forces.
                             They go to work on us.
                                                                  We flail in our chains.

The work of the world transforms the body over and over.

Things in nature seem more concrete
                                                            than humans with their airy discourse
but when spirits hum in every rock and river
                                                                      the situation is reversed.
To undergo the metamorphosis
                                                  into a tree among trees
                                                                                       is to become
more abstract and more free.
                                              This combination is lost to us now
thus the strange illumination
                                             of Ovid’s words.
                                                                       The transformations continue.





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