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The Poetry Of.
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Richard Brooks
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Pulling It All Together
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There must be a way of blending
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the unblendable, take
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words for instance, I was at this moment
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struck by the melancholy movement of Algonquin
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which has nothing at all to do with fleur de lis
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and yet, I want their flooding one into the other like
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a hybrid thing, a daisy chain of fluid vowels
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and consonants that in some perfect
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time and place,
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it just makes sense:
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Benchley, bending over his tomato bisque
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his tie, a field of threatened fleur de lis
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dangled over soup
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at the Algonquin. You were there
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of course, decked out in
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black-strapped heels of hell-bent Dorothy Parker
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in a cumulative, blent moment
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showing Einstein knew that time bends into curving
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synchonicity, when all hearts hear the music all at once
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and there is nothing odd about we are, we were
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will be- when even a lily like you
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could grow in such Algonquin clod: the balding,
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bespectacled
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Benchley brusque of me.
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Spanish Moss
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Lazy stretch of dusty roads that
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baked in unmitigated heat, the August
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that I traveled with the Christian Players
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through a ribbon of the south. I was a prop man
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not an actor, not a lothario
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like Danny Devereaux, who followed Cassie Baker
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like the hound that he was, and I think she may have
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petted him somewhere on a languid Louisiana
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weekend we were free to see the
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local color, but so buried in the boonies that the color of her
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underwear
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is what he saw I'll bet; that
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son of a bitch, I hate him
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to this day. Old dogs die hard.
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Glimpses
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I like the phrase: 'nice turn of ankle'
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-ladylike, and quaint. It conjures petticoats and parasols
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afternoons with sailboats on a bluewhite lake
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but most of what I see is what we ain't; it makes me
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homesick for a time I never knew but in my heart, I am
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Seurat. I understand a thirst known only in it's feint
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-how things gone blurry or half seen
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are what we see with most fidelity: a clip of moon
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through cloud, a woman's ankle
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for the woman not allowed.
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