Paul Guest joins the auberginian heresy. (Can't figure out how to link directly to his poem, but's it's a beaut, no matter how little time it took him to write). I think Nada ought to join, too, given her blog's color. (Her and Gary's nuptials are fast approaching!) We also have a particularly hilarious entry from Kasey, who I will always think of now every time I put marmalade on my mausoleum.
Tim: The preciousness or lack thereof of "aubergine" would derive almost entirely from context, nicht wahr? Yes, I too thought that there ought to be a Foetry red phone for just these occasions, like on the old Batman TV show.
Here is my own contribution:
Subcutaneous, interstitial: two rules.
A bruise, what you were thinking of saying:
prepositions. Known in advance, the bookie
licks his pencil and bets on war. Toward night
the sandy valley blues. It's a commoner's
refraction, brown in the iris but indigo skied,
when we see what we own or ought to. More than kind
the world behind your blue-black curtain,
paring its nails, the difference between dis-
interest and its singular cousin un
makes for a science of narrative. Or else
your purposive description of a corn
flour chip. Edible at last these undies sheen
like a language in the dark, aubergine.
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Farewell, Barbara Guest .
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