Everything arrives on time,
her continual critics,
Gertrude Stein. She showed
up in Paris at the perfect moment.
Though, she had trouble
speaking, because she lied
each time she spoke. So, following
advice from Alice and her
brother, she wrote. And write she did!
Casting on the page juxtapositions of
words, boggling conventional concepts
of sentence and meaning, and bashing
around nouns and verbs . . .
cramming them together like
sun tanned bodies on a crowded beach.
And the bewildered, stunned, reactions.
T. S. Eliot shaved his head and
contacted Sigmund Freud. Wallace Stevens lost
a shitload of money in the life insurance business and
stopped giving a fuck about much of anything.
Everything falls into its exact order of
arrival. Everyone who seeks, finds, even those
excitable squares pissing and moaning
over Gertrude Stein.