Here I am again, this time writing an essay on surplus-labour value, or some such Marxist claptrap. The one thing that has value, for me at least, and sire Clifford of the Brim_manor, is the poetic, the phonograph that skips and jumps and hurdles and caterwauls like a moorhen. Where would I be without my Celan’s and Heaney’s, Eliot’s and Pounds, Milosz’ and Gombrowicz’s? A machine is a machine is a machine, one antecedent chain that forever skips and hurdles and caterwauls deep into the moorhen of night. Give me the poetic, or give me gingivitis. Now may we all Paz for a brief moment of reflection.
