Up until a year ago, Charish Halliburton was working on a commercial fishing boat off the coast of Alaska. In between tying knots, she wrote poetry. Below deck she read Herman Melville’s Moby Dick and underlined passages that reminded her of lyrical dichotomies and increased dementia. Ahhh. The sea made her melancholic, the waves made her nauseous, and the fish made her miss her lover back in the continental U.S. It was time to return. So she gathered her things; one sack, one hook, one coil of rope and flew back to Normal Illinois. It was there; she reunited with her loved ones and told tales of her seaside exploits. But it won’t be long before Charish gets restless and returns to the tumultuous waves of Poseidon. . .
Gertrude Stein was unimpressed
with the anti-Semite, Ezra Pound.
I’m under the impression that Pound was a dick but a good
fuck.
I could imagine the angry and
paranoid sex.
All the while, he would repeat
minimalist tales that put women
to sleep.
One good poem?
I’ve got a million of them,
I’d say to him. I’ve just written
it a million different ways.
And before I drift, I’d remind
him to put out his cigarette.
He’d ask with a wild look in his
eye,
What has brought me here?
One good poem, I’d reply.
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