Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone

I'm supposed to be writing a paper - two in fact. But nothing doing. Too much schoolwork and my brain turns off and decides to read T.S.E. instead.  My cherished humans, how are we still in January? I find myself longing for sky sky sky, birdsound, and spring growings.
I'm supposedly reading Pound right now, but how can you really enter into him, when the first lines you read are: "say this to the Possum: a bang, not a wimper/with a bang, not a wimper". especially as he goes onto talk politics and Mussolini hanging by his heels....its impossible to find him compelling, with this still echoing in your ears. As very young writer of ten years old, I used to take those words of T.S.E. and hold them in my mouth, shape them, whisper them to myself - all with little idea of their meaning in a fuller sense than the sounds they were. All I could feel is that they were sound with meaning, shade with color, and that they talked. talked wildly! Half my age ago I already knew that to make sound talk was all I could ever want.

pic of Jeff Gun art

shudders of winter's fog, butterflies, and eternity today
to this sound

Saw a train catch the night on FIRE.

its snowing
listening to this
and dreaming about such luxeries as appartments and summer;
summer now means figure drawing, photography, printing and music...everything that keeps me alive...
the one consolation is that we're studying printing rights and typography in 17th century england in ENG 430 this term. 

pic from here