How many ways can you destroy a flower? How many ways can the days break? Hear the “association” in free association as a welcoming to get shot in the backcountry where naked means plain and anarchy means mundane brain activity. Post-confessional, post-HR visit, I feel kinda clean like walking into the Fresh Market and wanting to burn it down or punctuating the world’s abundant wonders with the words “not / so much.” Divine is a noun and a verb. Miracles are regular things: the ground, an egg, a cigarette on your work break, medicine for your chronic ambition. To be neither necessary nor sufficient – yet still – have a willingness to pen “standalone” poems while relentlessly maintaining a tone that’s just “difficult.” It’s called integrity, Hamlet. Try qualifying practice: nearly missed, momentary relish, holding each other responsible. Fine, I’ll go home now and hate watch the latest highly touted average palaces. See what all the fuss’s about. There Must Be a Reason People Come Here by Brian Foley (Black Ocean, 2021).
