Living in and out of the past,
so many things have died
In and out like a tide,
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.
Here are the little gravestones
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.
lost days, in and out of themselves
and dreaming again and half-
Still tired. More tired. Tireder, tiredest, tired ad nauseam, tired infinitum.
Mr. Berg Waves to the Sky
He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.
No one to answer, to call.
His hand raised, and he wasn’t sure.
The symmetry of his body broken,
one arm up, one arm down.
His name was still Berg.
His hand had spoken,
nevertheless, above him.
Ana Teresa Barboza
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar…
this, on every last train ride into work
Joyce analyzes something still more ungraspable than Proust’s “lost time”: the present moment. There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable, than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact. In the course of a single second, our senses of sight, of hearing, of smell, register (knowingly or not) a swarm of events, and a parade of sensations and ideas passes through our heads. Each instant represents a little universe, irrevocably forgotten in the next instant. Now, Joyce’s great microscope manages to stop, to seize, that fleeting instant and make us see it.
[Because desire won’t shrug off…]
Because desire won’t shrug off,
and the heart begins to eat its stores
its substance—slowly, at first, and
(but nothing’s left to lose so it is downed)
We have a thing here called hunger
A feeling and an ache, want of want.
You could try it sometime if you like.
Sun drinks down its own day.
Dusk takes us to task.
Hath drunk so deep
You could be forgiven for not knowing.
You could be forgiven for a lot of things.
Flamingos take refuge in a bathroom at Miami-Metro Zoo, Sept. 14, 1999 as tropical-storm force winds from Hurricane Floyd approached the Miami area.
There’s a black bear
in the apple tree
and he won’t come down.
I can hear him panting,
like an athlete.
I can smell the stink
of his body.
Come down, black bear.
Can you hear me?
The mind is the most interesting thing to me;
like the sudden death of the sun,
it seems implausible that darkness will swallow it
or that anything is lost forever there,
like a black bear in a fruit tree,
gulping up sour apples
with dry sucking sounds,
or like us at the pier, somber and tired,
making food from sunlight,
you saying a word, me saying a word, trying hard,
though things were disintegrating.
Still, I wanted you,
your lips on my neck,
your postmodern sexuality.
Forlorn and anonymous:
I didn’t want to be that. I could hear
the great barking monsters of the lower waters
calling me forward.
You see, my mind takes me far,
but my heart dreams of return.
with pale-pink tongue
at the center of his face,
is turning his head,
like the face of Christ from life.
Shaking the apple boughs,
he is stronger than I am
and seems so free of passion—
no fear, no pain, no tenderness. I want to be that.
Come down, black bear,
I want to learn the faith of the indifferent.
And why get angry at Helen?
As if she singlehandedly destroyed those
multitudes of men.
As if she all alone
made this wound in us.
John William Waterhouse - The Soul of the Rose