Ruskin’s claims about the terrible and sportive grotesque are well known. The former lacks seriousness and expresses (a quick gloss) apathy; I am composed almost entirely of apathy, so I suppose that my poems may become more robustly proto-sublime if I can transfer that schizophrenic immobility into the past, content and so on (should we all?). Gratefully, it belongs there.
the poverty of pollution
(all things are waged in hours):
flexible counters have a leaden
poisoned ballistic. Stride,
have a total conviction in a
day’s simplicity with her.