Letter to B.R. from G.F.
Such a heliotropic mind you have; have I never seen before the sun staring out from your grape-set eyes as I have buried in the broken existence of your very own collection of being which is, it so happens, not quite the set you had in mind. O my Berty, my logic, my incomplete and run-on sentences, if only it were so that you being alone in number are one among many plotted along the axes of squiggly inclusion in life and death of the very mind you claim to divest of its mooring. Let’s now begin! The axioms are too trite for that approach, rather should we not bend in accord with the winds of eschatology, and thereby, and rightfully so, fully fund our implementation of even the littlest of numbers concerning all weary contradictions? I do not claim to reclaim nor to revitalize what is, to quote the Buddha, “dead”—my initial volume of many years in the making—but to source the native mechanics, expectancies, diatribes, and dialogisms swirling around under that boyish canopy of your luscious coif. I say, Dearest, if all the hair on your head is the set of all the hair on your head, then it stands to reason that without hair you would have no head. Startling conclusions are the ways of pre-coital ratiocination! Hmm, to myself as non-set of my faultless Bedeutungen toward the personhood of weeping willows casting no shade upon the poor.
Response Letter to G.F. from B.R.
Sacred are the desires you adulterate.
Truth is not unbeknownst to all
But the poor—and to the inner set
We disinherit—children.
If these remain unfed
All the rest is just What?
In the breeze of the other
Is always the howl of the wind.
Umbriate Press Poetry 