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Like I Said

Does feeling write us? Does the landscape watch us vanish without trying to understand us?

Warren Craghead III lives in Charlottesville, Virginia, USA with his wife and two daughters.

The donkey.
The dog: the stray and the spaniel.
The cow, the cow, and the other sad looking cow.

Pictures of a Fireman

Error must find a way to charm bias.

While Knox’s poems maintain a healthy awareness of themselves as constructed objects (“black and white graphic art,” Knox has called them), they simultaneously feel in constant, and deliriously unpredictable, motion.

This "functionary class" is co-optive, incapable of originality, grafting onto its evil and mundane tree the native "shrewdness" and greed common to the worst peasants, and the pretentiousness and faux complexity/ haughtiness of the worst nobility.

from Diary of Return

Delhi is hell. It is hot. It hits one in the face like the exhaust pipe of a long-haul trailer spewing thick blackness into a pristine sky. It smells like ruin.

I do not believe in the separation of faith and works, but, like James, believe faith without works is dead, and works without faith is merely materialism as a form of the dole.


The breadth of that poetic growth is in itself a fantastic teacher.

Conscientious Protests
--after Julio Cortazar

Poetry, like music, like dance, might be defined as the precision of ecstasy, and the ecstasy of precision, an ecstatic precision, and measured ecstasy.

So if you don’t like what’s on the table/you better find a McDonald’s/and a roll of paper towels/Some redeeming social value/Have your infinities mammogrammed yearly.