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Hubert Cumberdale

My coffee is pretty hot. And black, I suppose.

Posted on 2007.08.17 at 12:06


(Anonymous) at 2007-08-19 20:18 (UTC) ()
Hmm. I checked out the link, and while I think there are some nicely worded lines---I particularly like "It's almost two hundred years later and I am still retreating from Moscow." But I can't call these poems. In fact, to dub it a "prose poem" is a jack-ass way of getting around the fact that they aren't poems at all. They just sound like ol' Simic was sitting around telling some weird, made-up stories.

So I'm going to try to write one right now.

I went out after dark last night and found that I should have stayed home. I met a bum on the street who asked me for a dollar. When did they stop asking for spare change?

I pulled my pockets inside out and shrugged. The bum then offered me something from his shopping cart bounty. I declined with a bow and turned back toward my block.

When I returned to my place, I found that my keys were locked in.
(Anonymous) at 2007-08-19 20:19 (UTC) ()
Oops. My first sentence doesn't make sense. Not many editors manage to introduce errors.
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