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friday poem (from the secret of why we first took to our feet)

In the daily minutiae picking up, picking out, packing up, freedom is a force multiplier still increasing in importance, where you going with your lazy eye in central Europe rollerblading on love’s highway got no action to declare wszystkiego naylepszego dream on, dream churned out in a post-bomb haze, what about ya, little legs twisted on the cement feels the kicks against the pricks, smile because it happened and don’t ask what the world needs.

Briefs me on the latest, on the lanky blur, on the secret of why we first took to our feet, Cro-Magnon, filet mignon, coming alive in the 1980’s with Madonna and hairspray, yes that’s it, a realistic statistic of the mice finding another way in the maze, flattop for the coming apocalypse, for the way we dip our feet in the dead holes, the eye socket does not contain
a rainbow.


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Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…