Rimbaud (from the END Chronicles) We too have our Rimbaud, whiskered away in Berlin, sporting a beard, plays guitar still, has children, wife, knows steel and Europe like a scale or a fret, his fingers. When shall we visit him? To say, let us make amends, wounds are long-scabbed, faint the scars, omissions that dug into the historical heart, but thirty years later, what do we have to lose, as the man said in his books of theory, as I declare to my children now, but our various chains?
Infinitive Distilled, flotsam flipped out, impurities strained, clear glass of hydrogen and oxygen in water, this gift you carry that keeps me going while I flail on against potentates and their armies. Thank you, dankjewel, obrigado, merci, gracias, what I have gathered, wandering through the fields of languages, trying to make home a simple infinitive like to love or eat or drink.
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