although we choose to call it song.
—Birds by Albert Goldbarth
Too full of self?
Hello! Self too full?
And he feels I pull him away from his
family. What do I do,
wondering about
vacation, Charles Bernstein, talking on
the telephone in a knit dress?
We are poverty and war?
A
month without a newsblip
sifting cartoon sand with
blistered feet, the (pixellated?)
facade of Notre Dame as backdrop.
Stupid telescope.
I’m reading some of Bill’s Columbus Square
Journal for (I
think) the sixth time. Someone’s
walking a Weimeraner in front of me, left to
right. Otto’s going
to “hip hop.”
The world is calling out (like inocuous bird-
song: to what? to
whom? to what? to whom?).
Something is already here.
Is it intent? Is it
intelligent? And, if
so, translatable?
Structured?
Cacaphonous?
