a year of
tie
dye
inkscapes
and
picassoesque
faces
say
the
experts
10,000 stars for every grain of
sand
some scientist
counted
and poets have
tyromanced
all
the
alothic
and
sapsto
sitting shiva
in their
upper rooms
wainscotting
the only
thing
left
for me
is
louching
into
auricomus
skeins
of
lambent
apricity
furfuraceous atoms
flocculent
in tea pink colustrums
gyre and gimble
Vincent Zepp
Arriving at the time in history (including literary history) when I did. I was blessed to have such a rich tradition of poetry, art, music, and culture available to me. This continues to allow my poetry to flourish in a rich loam of influences. The work I believe is representative of the best thoughts and intuitions of my generation of writers whose challenge is to move forward with the gifts given to us from previous generation of artists. From Ferlinghetti who opened my eyes to Pound and Eliot through the various significant literary and art movements of the 20th century. Then there was the haiku master Basho who showed us frogs leaping into the pond of our mind. John Berryman said our poetry should be something no one else could do. I've tried to focus on that idea.
