the tapestry i wove and i now sink back into weaving into the testimony of my writing life these odd inclusions in vitamin "m" ("m" being for "minus") that end up in the tapestry you sink back into and like a penelope you have spent all this lifetime weaving and unweaving as you wait for the return of some lord called ulysses and
yes I know it looks odd, yet really it's simply putting the words together that made it seem that there are diamonds in dark valleys of broken glass when the milky luminous moonstone abalone moons make their ways into the deep and dark narrow alley lanes as you sleep, but by now so many movements, so-called –isms in my writing life have blown in through the open windows of my word kitchen that the kitten in my mind’s corner in the basket under the old gas stove’s bouncing from surrealisms to symbolism and the post-avant-garde’s a canker even often cantankerous jungle-jingler with yens for villanelles and, rhymes, rondos, haikus and with deep koans inside.
Once I'd reveried memorizing many sacred books from the Koran, the Bible—old & new—plus the Book of the Dead, the Kalevala, the I Ching(—that one seeming “sacred” during hippie days in San Francisco in the ark on Haight & Masonic streets). It has all come to seem like hitting speed-bumps that smell of pheromone breakdowns leaving pawprints on parchment and that this finally is the tapestry I wove and I now sink back into.
Edward Mycue Born in Niagara Falls, NY, grew up in North Texas, studied in Boston, interned at WGBH-TV, Peace Corps Volunteer, Department of Health, Education, & Welfare employee, writing years in Europe, settled in San Francisco where I have published several books of poetry.