Looking through old typewritten papers I keep finding these odd ones typed on the back of really strange photocopied magazine adds; in 2002 I am working in the library at the Univ. of New Orleans filing old magazines; my boss; Hurricane Florence; had me photocopy to archive millions of these strange adds. I would keep a copy and take it home to use as poem paper. This poem paper just happens to be an ode to Eliot.
The smile is of content, of radiance in acomplishing an open book breeze slicking back your hair fanning you. You could see with your glasses if only you had eyes. and your clothing will never become fresher, never un-mothed, like mothers tells us, 'stop picking at it' Let your pocket blow it's own nose the world lays top sided and languid outside your windows a slight blue of where 'now' will take you However, there is falsity to this world, perhaps it is mirrored without you near or backwards (I'm sorry, i see
xxxonly rings on strings) but still i return to that xmadening glare you seem to me as if you are the breeze, and the book is blown over by you yet still, somewhere in the darkness you are dreaming, of wasted lands You arex spotted upon stripes round that neck, some striating your collars perpendicularing your apple, & most are hidden because of your overly proper xxxxaproach to looking to much like you. Smiling, breathing, blind, hearing, smelling, and holding on to life yet walking, you may not do, never again will you promanade your way threw my park, nor my chess game, xxxxxxxi remember someone once told me why you added the S to your name because backwards, it would have spelled toilet.