Nada Gordon wrote this:
Let the imbroglio come loping up in puffed-out blankets tuning and detuning the morose object "leg"-the homeless monologues-the hand a pretty hearse, the city steamy and ruinous with detail: onions, the white duck, the frizzy araucana, the dappled hen on east 12th street .Borrachos, camarones, smell of potatoes frying, and a guy bleached into a gorilla at the end of the world. Everybody's got a chimney sweep in her soul, her soul, whistling at the steamy ruins. The world's at war as usual. I'm fighting with my friends, painting a giant hiding box yellow. Melting the perisphere, balefully, with education-it's cloudy lies- biting the phalasteries- carpal starters- thank you- distilled and orderly touch of time. Spiel...roaring through my trunk-panaderia, parlor games, caliphs and terrific abstraction blown out like smoke: hard labor, forced labor, abdominal distention. "Can I have a piece of aluminum foil?"
Popinjay:"The flowers in the dustbin are blowing through the jasmine in Shigeru's lunchbox. It's all relative maaaan."
Good afternoon, Dr. Treadmill. I don't need you any more. I have no more problems. I am in love.
(from -V.imp.- Faux Press, 2003)
Nobody in blogland, nobody anywhere, is writing more beautiful poetry than Nada Gordon. Friends, beware: if you upset Nada, you might be causing a major and permanent loss to contemporary culture in that she might write one less poem.
I kid you not.