by a spirit of uselessnesswhich delights them—all the exciting detailof the chaseand the escape, the errorthe flash of genius—all to no end save beautythe eternal—So in detail they, the crowd,are beautifulfor thisto be warned againstsaluted and defied—It is alive, venomousit smiles grimlyits words cut—The flashy female with hermother, gets it—The Jew gets it straight— itis…
lifts its form-chicory and daisiestied, released, seem hardly flowers alonebut color and the movement-or the shapeperhaps-of restlessness, whereasthe sea is circled and swayspeacefully upon its plantlike stem
a red brick chair90 feet highon the seat of whichsit the figuresof two metalstacks–aluminum–commanding an areaof squalid shacksside by side–from one of whichbuff smokestreams while undera grey skythe other remainspassive today–
About the lengthAnd apparent bulkOf a man wasRolling with theWind slowly overAnd over inThe street asA car drove downUpon it andCrushed it toThe ground. UnlikeA man it roseAgain rollingWith the wind overAnd over to be asIt was before.Anonymous submission.
Which sky? The skywhere Watteau hung a lady’sslipper. Your kneesare a southern breeze — ora gust of snow. Agh! whatsort of man was Fragonard?— As if that answeredanything. — Ah, yes. Belowthe knees, since the tunedrops that way, it isone of those white summer days,the tall grass of your anklesflickers upon the shore —Which shore?…
gone down in purple,weeds stand high in the corn,the rainbeaten furrowis clotted with sorreland crabgrass, thebranch is black underthe heavy mass of the leaves–The sun is upon aslender green stemribbed lengthwise.He lies on his back–it is a woman also–he regards his formermajesty andround the yellow center,split and creviced and done intominute flowerheads, he sends outhis…
with your stinking ash-cart!Brother!–if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well–all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand–dreams are not a bad thing.
tapering conicallyto a point, each branchand the peak a wire forgreen pods, blind lanternsstarting upward fromthe stalk each way toa pair of prickly edged blueflowerets: it is her regard,a little plant without leaves,a finished thing guardingits secret. Blue eyes—but there are twenty looksin one, alike as forty flowerson twenty stems—Blue eyesa little closed upon a…
That makes us write-Let us acknowledge it-Men would be silent.We are not menTherefore we can speakAnd be conscious(of the two sides)Unbent by the sensualAs befits accuracy.I then said:Dare you make thisYour propaganda?And he answered:Am I not I-here?
