A tame hypothesis

What romance in the lowlife?
Teeming civilization questioned
endless wilderness, “Why?”
when laziest—thence the sprawl—
now literature is a lawn
on which any nude young man
may crawl: Cervantes here,
Hitler there, Schopenhauer
in a ditch, Kerouac drunk
and leaning over a woman
named Weil—all of them
now dead as we will be
if we forget life is a thing
on which we must scrawl
our temporary burdens.


~ by Jeremy on June 24, 2013.

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