Wallace Stevens Wazzup? With the widows and the maidens? The name dropping the distancing vocabulary that we scurry to look up look up train our eyes train. If I came into your office, in downtown Hartford a city I knew framed - as my father grew up in Wethersfield always said be careful – downtown Hartford is not a good place to be alone. So I saunter, prink, and perambulate plonk myself past your receptionist. A widow? And she’d holler: -Mr. Wallace I asked her to stop! And your desk which you requested almost 15 years ago already looks out of date in too heavy oak is caught between us, a horizontal surface filled with paper. There will be one sentence. And one exclamatory remark. -Wallace, you’re only human - you put your pants on one leg at a time. -No! he says, jumping up from his desk, -Watch! He undoes his belt, he drops his trousers he steps out of them – He steps out one leg at a time. BUT Wallace Stevens, god bless him, arranges his pants carefully on the floor of the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company just so. And grinning, hops into both puddled legs at the same time. Then bends over and hoists the waistband the belt dangling in triumph. Lesson learned. Learned, schooled like St. Ursule with her radishes Just another lady Just another confabulist Just another story.
Chugging through collected works of Wallace Stevens. Conflicted. Needed a fantastical moment for him and me to parlay.
Petty theft of pretty poetry so taut like my buttocks when I was twenty and did not appreciate the ripeness of my flesh. Or this – about an orange peel – the white is bitter the spits of oil not iridescent as oil might be lazed in a parking lot puddle. Try for size the heavy fur of winter cottages, blah except for holiday wreaths and the silent exhalation of smokes snaking from their top. Translate this grapefruit that is both sour and sweet and fulminates loss.