Monday, April 20, 2009
wine is how words taste
So who'll drink first? You or me?
How specific our thirst is—for just this raisin,
just this weedy fragrance, the tannic
beatitudes of wine!
Do we abjure the proletariat of corn and hops?
Wine is how words taste, fermented in darkness,
releasing tongues from cobwebs that restrained them.
Old friend, I can see by the look on your face
something to tell me. Good or bad? Speak!
"Café des Artistes," John Hartley Williams
[Madison Street west of Wabash Avenue]
- ► 2011 (107)
- ► 2010 (115)
- gentle rain from heaven
- bathe and paddle about bucolically in a mild puddl...
- indistinguishable from magic
- i like this kind of tension
- a kind of gravity
- flat and coolly distant
- here we go again
- take, for example
- like a perhaps
- wine is how words taste
- the doleful cello
- a crowd of grand and confused images
- there are two silences
- an oblivion of care and a freedom from solicitude
- double yolk
- crushed cigarettes and kitchen matches
- you had
- haunted evenings and dark nights of secret assigna...
- must mean something
- night's friendly takeover
- makes me clumsy
- trop retro
- what they are
- things are going to happen that are going to shift...
- down the streets of the big night world
- no one more ferocious
- ▼ April (30)