Nibbling in the Agora
Unexpectedly, a chill white day in the middle of July. It happens, here. Clouded over as I rode, this morning, before the sun was up, and the expected heat hasn't materialized. Not yet, anyway.
It was fun to read my poems aloud. It's always different, depending on the audience: different people respond to different things.
I love Tiel's poem about the glass people on the dark side of the moon.
Perhaps rashly, I've ridden my bike to Tosi's. My back is a little twinge-y. I promise it I'll lie down flat on my back as soon as I get home.
A little lost, a little forlorn. Sometimes looking at my old poetry, I feel like an ignorant peasant wandering in ruins. Supposedly it's the work of his own people, but it's nothing they could do now. Or would want to. More than just the poetry: ruins of all sorts of projects surround me. Chinese, Eating Properly, Getting Travell & Simon Down Cold, Reading Modern Poets, Getting a Grip on the 18th Century, Learning to Listen to Real Music, Marketing Massage. I pasture my sheep in the old agora, and look around me uneasily, at the moss-covered blocks of marble, the crumbling faces of forgotten gods, the undecipherable inscriptions.
Just do the next thing, Dale.