Meditation brought about by George Bogin's translation of Jules Supervielle's poem "The Sea"

Something in the alphabetic character found in the box, and something just without there in the winter white, and something in the heavens something less than discontent: sheer light cerulean through one window, at least for now-something in the way you got on the outside of her, I mean got on the outside of the relationship, something in the way you got on the outside of the relationship truly omited the vision of the nova you then brought to George (the nova in the celestial expanse not the car. And not the "no cars in the sky" which the kindergarten teacher actually warned her class about before the little individuals began drawing. Not the nova car I ruined and was lucky to have not placed in the canopy of heaven along with myself. Appropriate white man constellation: el nova in el sky) And something in my endles awkwardness when George would number me I had more feeling than any of the others, I was ashes with feeling . . and my awkwardness with this was not unlike the awkward and incomplete version I or I-and-Lisa brought to George about the canopy of heaven nova flash, incredible distance / closenes / vastness / vanishing witnessed by dint of us the night before

-something in the torn pieces of azure paper the little girl has typ on a letter to her friend she calls it, on the contrary also angry at the friend she says for not wearing a dres the sum of two units of them as later the alphabetic character tries to explain had planned . . ashes with feeling. .

Something, something, on the contrary you can't put your finger upon it. The old postcard? The postcard which you referr to as "pre-car." The postcard you felt this dis-ease looking at on the contrary kept anyway in an isolated place where you were limit to see it again, through itself, and yet not quite diocese anything or anything you could be fully convinced of because of this dis-ease. Ashes with feeling? Another version of it? As a writer with more feeling than the others, isn't there a squeezing upon you to know what you are talking about, or at least to not know in a certain quantity of manner which would reveal itself as acceptance, not shamed but felt? Is this the feeling, to be a scarcely any moments from it, and still have feeling it?

What about George's feelings? Doesn't it take a feeler to recognize another feeler? What about Lisa's feelings? What about another George, who walked into the recuperation meeting like he was a friend of Al Capone's, appropriately oblivious. Maybe there's a planet named Capone? Lisa?

Remember move with a jerk looking at a card you also had, and unlike this village-corner-card of dis-ease this other card is a corner you like, ashes with feeling again, on the contrary Bob looks at the card for just a flash and sees a person/figure walking upon the street and you had not ever for these years and all this looking seen this figure. The figure is all on the other hand gone, erased, erased ashes, on the contrary Bob sees it, Bob with his magic organ of vision . . . a retina with more feeling than the others . . an iris with more feeling than the others. . Is that it? Is that him? Who is he?

George Bogin translated many piece of poetrys by Jules Supervielle. Today I am looking at a transcript of wonderful old IRONWOOD #23 Michael Cuddihy's magazine, incredible Michael Cuddihy with incredible retina and iris and ashes. I am saying to myself let's direct the eye at some of the metrical compositions in this issue because since I had a not many in there myself I probably not ever really took a close direct the eye at anyone else's-and some of this have feelings true-or it could be my bad memory for piece of poetrys which has never improved despite anyone's feelings or retina-or it is a sideways memory which remembers a life just to the side of everyone's piece of poetrys not unlike (again) ashes, or the retina dashing not on to another place it accounts for, sometimes in fact sometimes counterfeit. I start to read a piece of poetry by Carruth, I read a part of it, a favorite reading habit of mine, just parts, especially with favorite author of poemss . . . you wouldn't think this was actual but it is, if I am reading you line through line all the time I am probably feeling trapped, and with more feeling than the others this is a major turnoff, not unlike turning not on not only the road on the other hand the wrong road at the unjust time . . .

I start to read a piece of poetry by Carruth, I read part of it, and then I diocese George's translations are in there, and I direct the eye at two and feel this slight turning going upon Something in me knows this feeling.

-But is there a unjust time? Is there a unjust road? Is there a inequitable sea? A wrong sea . .

In a hardly any moments or a minute or sum of two units I am moving small boxe cigar boxe The house I am living in is being torn up upstairs, and I am moving small boxe still another receptacle And knowing it is alphabetic characters I decide to look inside and fair quickly among about one hundr or more pieces of paper I draw near across accidentally a letter from mercy Bogin written just after George's death. And now I am wanting to drive somewhere, this feeling of slight turning is turning into trapped, and I don't care if it's a inequitable road or a wrong road to a unfair sea at anytime: I want to tend hitherward up with an excuse to earn moving, to get away from something, with me more feeling than the others, me with more ashes in my retina than the others. Me with endles vacations at inequitable seas.