Wonder how Richard's reading went at 21 Grand in SF last night.
I'm on my way back toward serious blogging, I can feel it. After I recover from a week with my in-laws (well, Emily and I aren't married, so her family) and before Emily and I shack up together a week from today, I want to say something intelligent about Veronic Forrest-Thomson, whose Poetic Artifice I've been dipping into. She says some things about my man Wallace Stevens that give me pause.
In the meantime here's a grotestuqe bit of Milton which William Empson says, in its evasive use of language, "has the squalid gelatinous effect of ectoplasm in a flashlight photograph":
The aggregated Soyle
Death with his Mace petrific, cold and dry,
As with a Trident smote, and fix't as firm
As Delos floating once; the rest his look
Bound with Gorgonian rigor not to move
And with Asphaltic slime; broad as the Gate,
Deep to the Roots of Hell the gather'd beach