On Ursula Le Guin's Feature on Paris Review
Anger at Ursula Le Guin.You talk in the form of a scandal extraction, thing in the light darkened to a fighting
You hide it, and call upon the delight of you above. The caller of attention, teller of people
That the only way out is to find a piece, tell of it, make sure it's real
Astonish the illusory. Deny it all you want. Function like a bishop, lay like a chess
Pieced together formed like dung, light in the black space. Light in the closed eyes.
When furnished falsettos glare upon you, make no sense of it.
There's charm in this, but the sense? AMiss.
Enter your typing, enter your pick.
You need the issue to pick at, because what else function is for
If you have no flock to carry. You read and more
Shit. Comes out of. You.
You want a following, you listener of dreamscape
Radio station in the midnight clock.
YOu talk in the lobby of waiters.
You listened by no one, talk. YOu listened by not you, talk,
You talk because you are not listend
to.
Talked in the attempt to make sense, that starts at the beginning of the not having
No one to listen to.
Talk in the issue of lonely.
Talk in the form of like a trial in the face of wa tomorrow that doesn't come
Coming, leaflet unread. Seeing the back of a white skin.
The landscape of tarmac, all you hold back, you step back
A one a two there you go, you are now in front
The spectacle of a stellar link to your dick.
Dick di ck dick dickl cid,ck dick dickl
Dick is written in ways you can only say.
Not do. Do Do do her
In your mind, a stellar landscapoe of wrong types, of blindfolds, of
Richj histories linked to caspers and neon days
and lights in hte back of a man in front
of a girl, her crying.
In the airport.
You are a wiotness of a crying couple in the airport.
Youi are recipienmt to grandiose dicatiotrial shout.
You are missed by your self, because you left
NMo trace for heroes to pray for.
YOu are left with a stalk.
YOu listen to an acc
ve writing you.
Are lights off. Type type. Hands, licgj lighjt
AL hherroes a .
The nights have heroes you tarigh talk. Talk of the lighted one.
Nothing of making sense.
All of beat up trashlike talk. Staer at the tarmac of skin, stare at the emotional access.
Stare at the attempt to linger, the call for lion. The typing
is entered. You write, the type is set, you alomst asleep
think of a dick, think of a ghrapple. Think of a livid drying day
You need a concept. You need a family. You make it.
For an audience. The audience to apture.
The zen is not th
The zend in is the bend. UI cabnoaonly imagine what you think.
THere's nio logic in the commitment.
To a God, you only know.
More here: http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/09/03/introducing-our-fall-issue-2/
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