For me poetry (and especially recycling words from broken old books) has become symbolic resistance against the worst ills of our current world.
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For me poetry (and especially recycling words from broken old books) has become symbolic resistance against the worst ills of our current world. Good or not, it is something I can press myself against in bad weather; it shields me while I wait for yet another black cloud unleashing its hell to pass by. It can not be assimilated by the end-of-the-world paradigms of theft and extraction, for it is a wild, free thing that exists beyond what a machine mind can understand, and on its wings I am free as well.
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