I return now from the voice of James Tate's poetry. Or a gold rush. Men and women alike sit lifeless in their chairs, chuckling at the right moments. Frail voice creeps through the speakers, vibrating countless ear drums. But does a further action show potential? Thoughts of pretension worry the minds of the followers. Wine encased in minds; does prose penetrate? Does frailty prevail? Does Bacchanalian sentiment?
Can a thing be judged by that which came after? Perhaps art.
No comments:
Post a Comment