A cabbage can sit, blissful for weeks, on a curb in the heart of town,
offending only in its smelly latter days.
A person it seems, spends their entire life
apologizing for the inevitable time in old age
when they will begin to smell.
Is this enough to wish you were a cabbage?
Saturday, January 15, 2011
heaven
Old brown buildings made of paste, steel grilled windows locked in ice
black marks for crows on leafless branches scratched in ink
pressed flat against the paper snow clouds;
through a gate along the melting walk
...a young girl swings in a fog of breath; her wild hair
her wet red hands
are all i care to know of time and heaven.
black marks for crows on leafless branches scratched in ink
pressed flat against the paper snow clouds;
through a gate along the melting walk
...a young girl swings in a fog of breath; her wild hair
her wet red hands
are all i care to know of time and heaven.
spection
More responses to Cecil:
I have of late, discovered myself to be the discreet target of criticisms regarding suspect, eccentric behaviors; the manifestations of perfectly logical, legitimate reactions to disordered circumstances for which neither introspection nor trusted advice can avail upon experience or conjecture toward any more conventional expression.
Some few of us know how tight a space the skull can be when foreclosed upon by figures of intimidating authority. The art to regaining control is three-fold:
First, rationalize the situation for its counter-intuitive value;
Then take confidence that time rewards descretion;
And last, withhold your permission from any one demanding passage
through your forehead
into your mind.
. . . I am reminded of the tragic account from Captain Steven H. Thomas' log book, recovered from the few surviving scraps of another unfortunate yet perpetual contest of a sailing ship and a rocky coast; rescued against the odds by seafaring natives of the eastern Micronesian islands over a century ago and delivered eventually into the hands of the crew of the SS Portland two weeks after VJ day and a year before my reading it. . .
He recorded sighting what eventually materialized as two figures lashed onto a crude raft, adrift for god knows how long on the surface of the bright Pacific; tossed about like a palm leaf until, for want of water, their swollen lips burned like strips of bacon on their boiling faces. A silence gripped the crew as the dorys were lowered and rescue teams scrambled to fill them, for here was witness to every sailors worst conjuring: that a ship might drop to the ocean floor was the price of the trade; but that a man might live to die slowly under the Pacific sun was hell itself.
Approaching the raft, it was noted ominously that no reply to the firstmate's hail rose above the groaning oars and bustle of rescue preparations. If these figures were alive, they were so barely, deepening the private knowledge of dark omens among the crew, still occupied in their labor with a growing, mechanical detachment.
"One lives!" was the call from the lead dory, "one dead! Murdered!" came the news.
And on this report lept life itself, back into the nostrils and limbs of the twelve haunted crew mates, as ropes were tossed and tied; knives were drawn and lashings sliced. Two bodies loaded, one into each boat.
"This one can't be dead an hour," mused the Ship's Physician, "'his blood's fresh, still dripping from his wounds . . ."
"What in the name of God . . ?"
Each face now twisted in the form of the one collective mystery tradition has reliably left for those of superior rank to solve.
"One hour more, after the weeks they endured," spoke the First Mate, "one hour more and one man would be thanking us for his life and the other would not be facing the gallows."
I have of late, discovered myself to be the discreet target of criticisms regarding suspect, eccentric behaviors; the manifestations of perfectly logical, legitimate reactions to disordered circumstances for which neither introspection nor trusted advice can avail upon experience or conjecture toward any more conventional expression.
Some few of us know how tight a space the skull can be when foreclosed upon by figures of intimidating authority. The art to regaining control is three-fold:
First, rationalize the situation for its counter-intuitive value;
Then take confidence that time rewards descretion;
And last, withhold your permission from any one demanding passage
through your forehead
into your mind.
. . . I am reminded of the tragic account from Captain Steven H. Thomas' log book, recovered from the few surviving scraps of another unfortunate yet perpetual contest of a sailing ship and a rocky coast; rescued against the odds by seafaring natives of the eastern Micronesian islands over a century ago and delivered eventually into the hands of the crew of the SS Portland two weeks after VJ day and a year before my reading it. . .
He recorded sighting what eventually materialized as two figures lashed onto a crude raft, adrift for god knows how long on the surface of the bright Pacific; tossed about like a palm leaf until, for want of water, their swollen lips burned like strips of bacon on their boiling faces. A silence gripped the crew as the dorys were lowered and rescue teams scrambled to fill them, for here was witness to every sailors worst conjuring: that a ship might drop to the ocean floor was the price of the trade; but that a man might live to die slowly under the Pacific sun was hell itself.
Approaching the raft, it was noted ominously that no reply to the firstmate's hail rose above the groaning oars and bustle of rescue preparations. If these figures were alive, they were so barely, deepening the private knowledge of dark omens among the crew, still occupied in their labor with a growing, mechanical detachment.
"One lives!" was the call from the lead dory, "one dead! Murdered!" came the news.
And on this report lept life itself, back into the nostrils and limbs of the twelve haunted crew mates, as ropes were tossed and tied; knives were drawn and lashings sliced. Two bodies loaded, one into each boat.
"This one can't be dead an hour," mused the Ship's Physician, "'his blood's fresh, still dripping from his wounds . . ."
"What in the name of God . . ?"
Each face now twisted in the form of the one collective mystery tradition has reliably left for those of superior rank to solve.
"One hour more, after the weeks they endured," spoke the First Mate, "one hour more and one man would be thanking us for his life and the other would not be facing the gallows."
piano bench
Fact is a piano bench;
Truth is the quality of light through the windows
of the room you found it in.
Truth is the quality of light through the windows
of the room you found it in.
the residence hall
A bed come free this Christmas, i am told
in need of lullabye . . . . have you any wool?
"yes" i choked, i've just the song
to keep your empty blanket full . . . . .
...(god forgive me . . .) . . .
in need of lullabye . . . . have you any wool?
"yes" i choked, i've just the song
to keep your empty blanket full . . . . .
...(god forgive me . . .) . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
