Saturday, April 21, 2012
The Son Master
Given to me by Charles Bernstein. I think I have mentioned before that Charles used to have stacks upon stacks of books in his office at the University at Buffalo. Stacks upon stacks of boxes of books, too. Every once in a while, he'd need to clean things up a bit. On such occasions, he would hand out copies of books of which he had multiple copies to students as they came into class. Or he would just leave them on the seminar table and tell to take one as they pleased. I remember this was one of them. There was also a book by Ted Greenwald.
from The Son Master
I saw John writing the metaphysical poets today. It's an up to date way to read, so it consists less of the terminal part than the sound of a voice over the long haul gauge, the trial of sensation and dissection, counting the pages in rhyme so that the metaphysical names of the poets become possessed of a key to divided work as the blood in her veins through her knee. To keep this I can't have any pre-existing conditions. So I give them up in exchange for peace of mind. For my right hand, Charles Ives. For the rest of my life, Wallace Stevens. Walt Whitman and the men in his life for the men in my life.