i'm lovin' all my classes thus far this semester, ya'll. i'm, of course, absolutely in love with all my students in ADV PO. i have this one student who is particularly cool. gary l is a close-to-retiring (as he says) engineer who is taking the class with his daughter, lovely bree, & he is so kind. whomever is workshopping, gary looks them in the eye & calls them by name & says, 'well so-&-so this poem is just perfect.' he does give a bit of critique too. yesterday he provided the automatic which was a tibetan belling ritual something-another which was so special.
2.7.12 (Gary's auto / for Morgan)
when he came to a rest what attenuated was despair opposite--lung rush, some belling far off land the sands there--he wouldve said that's a Francis Bacon triptych, don't you let that go the light not unlike Caravaggio from some dank weapon of a medieval age come back to God now. that circuitry bell off some there, there now. lil red likelihood i lust so much now that limbs what you know transposed some lunguage he said, rife muscled thing not remonstrance is sacred is how when the word was made the earth began, said son, sun in the desert said to love again, start that life this one. resonate my merely when lust's skully pull un-pulls all others in the kite field.
from Jim Harrison's new book Songs of Unreason
Poet No. 7
We must be bareback riders. The gods
abhor halters and stirrups, even a horse
blanket to protect our asses is forbidden.
Finally, our legs must grow into the horse
because we were never meant to get off.