HAZE
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Posted:Dec 9, 2005 11:54 am
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:13 pm
1986 Views
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Has anyone considered how a lonely person feels in a small town
during those cold winter sunsets when the Sun fights with the shadows
under the clouds and melancholy drifts like a silent angel on the
narrow, tile-covered streets?
One such sunset brought Anna to the illuminated window of the
large corner store. She stuck her nose on the glass and shivered
to the frozen touch. All girls who passed by that corner would
do the same. So much so that the glass fogged up from their breath
and they could see their small desires emerge from the haze like
remote dreams. Anna did nothing different. And yet this moment
was exclusively hers, a moment that nobody else could have lived.
The street was almost deserted. The cold that passed silver needles
through the bones make the steps of the few passers-by reverberate
transparently on the dark walls. The girl stood in front of the
window alone. She put her hands in the pockets of her coat to
prevent them from freezing. Next to her, on the wall, someone had
drawn a heart with an arrow and two initials. She paid no attention
to them. Her life was one with her dream. Who could say where
reality ends and where dream begins. Perhaps dream is just another
form of reality. Time passed. The sly wind brought the siren
of the factory at the edge of the town to her ears. She was startled
as though she had touched fire. Simply, like the normal flow of
things, she left her place, her reverie and disappeared around the
corner of the world. The buzzing of a car that drove by fast
erased her steps.
In the window, behind the fogged glass, there still remained
so many dreams, getting frozen in the winter cold and getting old
like the minds of people.
Copyright 2006 by interested13563
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4
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HEAVY MINUTES
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Posted:Dec 4, 2005 5:22 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:14 pm
2034 Views
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The clock was constipated.
The usually slow afternoon hours
had come to an almost standstill,
an immense, unbearable burden
that cannot be expelled.
Pen on a paper, scribling
random patterns, disconnected words.
Paper torn to fragments,
cast all over the floor
like dry vomit, lest they might
spontaneously reassemble,
try to read themselves and
finally understand that
they contained a worthless void.
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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DOCUMENT
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Posted:Nov 18, 2005 4:18 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:15 pm
2118 Views
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The rustling shivers to the touch of fingers.
Forms that wrestle with the shadow in the sense of waves.
Sound of a Dawn without clouds.
"Who is going to give us credit for the decision of oblivion?"
The King of Asine, ceremonially dressed,
is running behind a half-mad, old Homer
who is hopping on the ruins like Nemesis: "Do not forget me."
A blue, transparent vein on your temple, almost invisible,
is unfolding life, your life, in the mirror
like a drop of ink that is spreading
and wrapping the horizon with steel.
Skin of birch that is being shattered by a hard Sun on the pebbles.
The eyes are sinking in the sand, shells
and limbs of broken statues.
Bright is the day on which you are gazing through the window
filling the touch with silk and thorns.
Land of creatures who do not bleed under the nails
whose appearance is like marble under the light and fever.
Day that is spreading like a sky in the eyes who know it;
the eyelashes are shaking to its reckoning.
Day that is abandoned to the lusty cradle of sunset
with a moon that is larger than silence
as the fingers get entangled with the needles of pine trees.
The night is deep, deeper than pain, deeper than reason,
weaving the taste of desire with the shiny curls,
black like rivers in the darkness.
Deep-wombed woman, orchestrating on the surface of a still lake,
full of love of winds, the vision of a moment with white angels.
But the angels are not white; they only shriek without words:
"It is the memories of old loves that hurt us."
And the echo of the invisible mountains replies:
"It is the memories of our illusions that burden us."
The angels, after selling the old, the , and Love,
precipitated to the deep wells howling:
"You will die; understand this",
while shameless old women, toothless,
producing their withered breasts, croaked like chicken:
"These are yours too. YOU have stolen them" -
with mouths open like broken skulls.
The form of a day which you have lived years before
returns like the same wandering salesman,
punctual and disturbing, always with the same knock.
Empty like a cracked jar, forgotten behind a row of books,
with the sound of the passing train that marks the time,
your position does not commute with momentum.
You empty your life to the vacuum, like a firefly,
fragmented, like a summary of a novel which you might write someday.
We are lost in emptiness, we are put out -
bodies vacant of Love -
with our vision salty with sea and tears,
so still that you anticipate the storm.
Dark woman, you bear your secret cryptically
away from the side of the Sun,
like a snake, sliced for the occasion,
with ocean looks that is fast to count the ground,
to forget the steps in the mud.
How did your blood merge with the Spring!
I sculpted you on the rock
and you sprouted on the beach like rice.
I am reading your memory, letters in a dusty book,
nodding my head meaningfully. I know.
I draw an exit on the paper and pass through it
to the night that had never existed.
-----------------------------------
An earlier poem, document to an
earlier life and an earlier love
that no longer exists but which,
with the first cold of November,
knocks at the doors of memory again.
------------------------------------
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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4
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SUNSHINE OVER GILBERT
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Posted:Nov 13, 2005 2:11 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:16 pm
2090 Views
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Inversion of November skills
turning the loops inside out.
It is the Sun and the vacuum pump
still hovering over invisible strawberry hills.
Gray trees - the train carries them within.
Gray train, the empty mailbox
glowing through the slide projector.
Gilbert is there, untouchable;
dust and memories;
the keyboard clicks after the steps
on the lawn. - No snow or cream
to whiten the blue sky.
One hundred and twenty seven,
beside one hundred and twenty eight
- not before - not after.
Collisions in many dimensions,
there must be a cascade of solar neutrinos.
The empty box and the smell of wet oysters
still on my mind.
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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6
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A. P. V. I. - A STRANGE STORY, PART V (CONCLUSION)
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Posted:Nov 9, 2005 4:46 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:17 pm
2070 Views
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“If you don’t mind, Bob”, I inquired, “what is your profession?”.
“I am the CEO of a company that produces superconductors”, the
stunning reply was unloaded on me. “You must know a lot about these
materials, then”, I said. “No, Paul, of course I know nothing about
any such materials! But we’ve got a couple of guys who know everything.
We keep them reasonably paid and well guarded”. “Naturally”, I continued,
“and your regional A. P. V. I. director?” - “He is a local judge and sports-caster!”.
At this moment I had all I had been looking for. The circle of observation and
inquiry was closed.
But I was getting drained and tired. It was only my curiosity that had
kept me going that night. The time had come for me to go. There was
only so much boisterousness I could take in one dose. I thanked Bob,
who would probably be glad to get back to his memoir writing. He was
obviously delighted to give me the message as he said, "always a
pleasure". My search was fruitful but the feeling of success exhausted
me and the thoughts it generated troubled my mind. "Good bye, Bob!
And good night!" I bid him as I stood up and moved towards the door,
reluctantly putting my overcoat on. "See 'ya later alligator!" he burst
out laughing thunderously.
When I stepped out of the A. P. V. I. regional headquarters the rain had
stopped but the sidewalks were still wet. There was a feeling of
coldness permeating the atmosphere. It seemed to emanate from my
chest as much as it rose from the small water pools scattered
along the pavement. The trees that had hardly been shelters in the
storm were closing their cycle of mockery at the human predicament by
raining down the water that had previously been retained in their
foliage. I walked slowly suppressing a shiver that ran down my
spine, keeping my hands in the pockets of my uncomfortably wet
overcoat.
The meeting had been brief but illuminating. I had gotten an
inadvertent glimpse of a world that was probable to take shape,
a fleeting image of an ongoing devolution, of an unraveling
carnage of life and reason, a potential end to rational or even
physical humanity.
As I walked in the dark empty streets of Pella my thoughts and
feelings lacked coherence. The bulky silhouettes of the surrounding
buildings entered my eyes wearily, oppressively. My internal processes
acquired the structure of physical existence by means of the
enveloping landscape that reflected them, giving material substance
to the intangible. I remembered my late grandmother. In her nineties,
life had reduced her physical presence to a small wad of entangled
memories. I loved that tiny being who used to hold my hand years
before I had to support hers. I had tried to follow those intertwined
threads hoping to arrive at an end, my grandmother's essence. But
as they wandered, wound, and diffusively merged into one another
I had come to realize that her real self was the connectivity that
emerged through the labyrinthic meander of her past experience
like a final word, a dotted line she singed on as she checked out
of life. It was the neatly spun spool of fishing-line
embodied in my recent interlocutor's "raison d' être", his proud
lack of everything, that prompted the revival of the old woman's memory.
Not of her, admittedly limited, knowledge but of the way she infused
the world with her love without projecting strength or glamour.
A small wad of loving memories that still brings tears to my eyes.
But as the moonless night fell heavy on the roofs that emerged as
darker volumes on a charcoal canvas it was the image of the
town of Velia in Southern Italy that silently entered my mind.
Velia still preserved some of the ruins of ancient Elea,
the city of Parmenides, the city where the pursuit
of knowledge was the law and the laws of reason were established
by the philosopher. I was walking in the intellectual and physical
antidote of Elea. Pella was as landlocked as anything could be
while Elea had enjoyed the inspiring breeze of the Mediterranean,
the spray of salty blue waves that stirred emotions, a deep craving
for knowledge and understanding. There can be regression in history.
I felt I was living through one. But still I hoped that humanity
would be unable protect herself from her very propensity for inquiry,
learning, and creating. Once the flame had been lit it would
always be fueled by our intrinsic desire for knowledge and reason
as Parmenides had envisioned it. Humanity may have worshiped gods,
often cruel ones, but had always empathized with Prometheus.
Yet at that moment I had doubts, a mixture of cold and heat
waves churning painfully in my brain. But isn't doubt an unalienable
part of the rational process?
The night was almost freezing as late autumn nights are in Iowa.
My steps echoed on the building walls, amplified by the cold surfaces
to sound bigger than my limited physical dimensions - a lonely night
walker looking for some truth and comprehension whatever they might be.
I knew little and understood even less. I walked doubtful over my next
destination, worried over how to follow up on my latest discoveries.
But I was certain I would think of something.
--------------------
JUST FOR LAUGHS....
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Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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A. P. V. I. - A STRANGE STORY, PART IV
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Posted:Nov 1, 2005 10:12 am
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:17 pm
2148 Views
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I slowly became bolder, Bob was very easily approachable after all,
a potential friend to any potential sports-bar customer. "Tell me,
Bob", I inquired, "what do you or would you do as an organization,
or personally if some people object to your style or your proliferation?"
"Well, Paul", said he, maintaining his friendly smile with more
determination, "let me tell you something. Sometimes you've got to
swat a few flies to spread the good word and keep or bring order!"
"So your physical superiority is not just for looks, you use it
sometimes!" I exclaimed. "Sure, we use it individually or collectively
when we must. But we are discreet, good people. We love the weak, the unfit,
and the unfortunate, our heart is full of pity for them. But they've got
to know their place, act their role." He was straightforward without
any hint of concern over the validity of his statement. The listener
was nonetheless loved even pitied. That would explain the unlimited
friendliness superimposed on a background of total relegation into
irrelevance of anything or anybody that did not belong to the group.
It was, then, no surprise that his name plate was located at such an
obscure place: no thought should or could be put into the value of
the possible observer. "Swat a few flies", he repeated tapping the
desk with his large, stiff fingers making it thumb as though the paw
of an elephant had just landed on it.
I wondered: had human intelligence run its course? Was it possible
that in the automated electromechanical state of the human world,
in which only a small fraction of the population needed to have the
powers of reason and specialized as well as general knowledge,
the number of those who would simply live as automata, gears in
the overall engine that was beyond their scope to comprehend, would
steadily grow until they became the undisputed majority? It has
been known that a feature characterizing a particular species
that evolved in order to adapt to a survival challenge can slowly
atrophy when it is no longer needed. The presence of higher intellect
is nothing but one of Nature's blind paths towards solving such problems,
a feature that is by no means unique or irreplaceable. The dinosaurs,
a collection of species that so far was the most successful - that is
long lived - on this planet,apparently had very little capacity
for abstract thought even though they had developed more intelligent
varieties just before the largest ones became extinct. Perhaps humanity
was about to evolve into two new species and give its place to them:
one that possessed a brain capable of abstract thinking and one that used
only brute force, the second dominating and enslaving the first by the
imposing power of its sheer numbers and physical prowess.
Apparently the mental strength of the postulated lesser species
did not arouse any worry in the brutes trying to dominate,
not so much for their basic lack of understanding but for their utter
confidence in their own character of being. Who would be there to fight
against if almost no one was left? Who will suffer the effects of power if
those who could were no longer alive? That was the A. P. V. I. sound
prescription for global happiness. Some brainies would always
be allowed around, to run the machines, to serve the higher goal of keeping
the world fed and smiling but they would know their place.
"Not only should people be under control, they must be constantly
aware they are under control. Not only should they feel overpowered,
they should be subdued to the point of feeling absolutely impotent
to resist. When order reigns, when the good word rules, everybody
is finally happy", Bob plainly and lucidly explained. There was
no wavering in his conviction. "Swat a few flies" - with pity, this would certainly
work, violence with a grin. Again I felt amazed at the frightening
prescience of Panos K. who had already speculated on the possible
meanings of A. P. V. I.
"Tell me, Bob", I asked, "what keeps you here so late in a town where
everybody goes to bed as early as possible?". He chuckled with an air
of conspiratory revelation. "I have been writing my memoir! It is so long,
a good four pages, including the introduction and the table of contents.
You see, Paul, it is important for people to get the message. You've got
to be nice, you've got to dress well, you've got to be able to dank that ball",
said the iron tank and his voice thundered in proportion to the magnitude
of his muscular body, fairly low pitched but quite resonant, filling with
its loudness the entire office. "So you are not against glamor", I injected.
"Not at all! We are setting the standard of living!". He let a few more
sentences out, volunteering an explanation of the "good word", which apparently
was directly equivalent to "love thy neighbor", and he sounded so sincere in
his solid expression of unadulterated ignorance that one could not but
accept his presumed good intentions, his nice demeanor, his "care"
for others. But I clearly saw how love, reason, and knowledge had
to supplement one another. By the A. P. V. I. denial of the last two properties
the practice of the first was rendered a mechanical application of niceness,
hiding if not justifying the underlying physical and consequent emotional
violence promulgated by them.
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TO BE CONTINUED... (JUST FOR LAUGHS)
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Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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3
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A.P.V.I. - A STRANGE STORY, PART III
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Posted:Oct 26, 2005 4:17 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:18 pm
2169 Views
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"Tell me, please, Mr. Kirchoff", I asked, "Bob!" he interrupted
with his permanently affable grin, "...Bob. How many members does
your society have?" He reflected for a moment and said, "We are
not certain, Paul. We can hardly count. Besides, many members do
not know they are and there are surely members whom the organization
does not know about or has heard of at all. I guess there must be over
six thousand in Iowa alone. But, I am happy to say, the numbers are
climbing!" Impressive, thought I. They did not even control their
membership. "What are the criteria for admission?", I tried to
probe deeper. "Nothing specific", the shocking answer hit my ears,
"just work out - a lot, eat your corn flakes, go to church, do not
bother to learn anything. You see Paul, it's not worth the trouble!"
So that was it. They were not dummies, they simply opposed knowledge.
As for membership, one could be appointed even unbeknownst to him
- did I forget to mention that A.P.V.I. had only male members? -
and one could consider himself a member without telling the society!
Ingenious, in fact, brilliant! It was their love for their own
big muscles and their inveterate dedication to ignorance that kept
them together in a loose spider web, spreading out from every
dusty corner of the planet to slowly engulf most of the Earth, fencing
out the fruits of reason, knowledge, and discourse as well
as the unbearable brainies who carried such infectious deseases.
How could an organization fail if the only requirement on its members
was to be their brute selves, to simply follow the mental path
of least effort? How could it ever be contained if membership was not
necessarily conscious? How could it not endure all adversities if
the hardest bit of information to digest was no information
what-so-ever?
"Please, have a seat. Remove that wet overcoat", said the bulldozer
with his mechanically propelled friendliness. "Thanks! You are most
polite", I reciprocated the nicety. "I had thought that your
obsession - pardon me the expression - with physical fitness had a lot
to do with sexual activity. Women love big muscles, don't they?",
I inquired, somewhat surprised at the easiness at which my words
had come out. "Sexual activity?" - his grin was swiftly replaced by
an expression of amazement tinted with a shade of offence. "I don't
know what women think. That is not my concern. Real men control
their urges. They do not yield to female charms and weaknesses.
And definitely they do not share their vital body fluids with others
unless it is absolutely necessary for procreation."
The discussion was turning into an interesting direction. These
people had been highly and dangerously misunderstood by their
critics. They had no interest in impressing the other sex nor
did they want to achieve any intimacy. In fact they opposed it and found even the most delicate feelings of affection very distasteful. They were quite content to show off their physical strength to one another - and, of course, they were fiercely delighted in knowing nothing. For them the "unknown x" was to be religiously maintained at its priviledged status as an unknown, to preserve its priceless quality of not
partaking in their cognitive processes, of effectively and irreversibly not being. He stressed this out repeatedy, in his
own simple words wanting to be absolutely certain I understood his
point, obviously unaware of the fact that for other people such
persistent repetion is usually redundant.
I had always thought of life as a kind of rust eating away at the
small revolving and tormented rock we inhabit. However, A.P.V.I.
had managed to materialize this simplistic metaphor and pursue it
to its perfection. They were slowly but decisively corroding the
entire premise of reason gnawing at its unguarded perimeter, silent
and vigilant. They were infiltrating all social and economic strata,
taking up key posts, attracting new members with their pure, verile
demeanor, their quintessence of masculine imperviousness, their
dedication to easily comprehensible morals, their unmovable
stay-the-message attitude. They thought of themselves as a super-race,
stronger at its roots, higher in its quality, divine in its ultimate form.
They did it all effortlessly, without planning, almost subconsciously
as it should be done by those naturaly destined
to be the heirs of humanity. To my eyes, though, they were nothing
but an incoherent gang of brutes in expensive suits, gleaming with
their big, empty smiles who had deliberately or by simple chance lead
themselves into a state of mental devolution, pre-Cambrian brains
hosted by huge vessels of physical propensity. Yet they were
successful.
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TO BE CONTINUED... (JUST FOR LAUGHS)
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Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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3
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A.P.V.I. - A STRANGE STORY, PART II
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Posted:Oct 22, 2005 12:10 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:18 pm
2178 Views
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I had finally found them. An organization that seemed to have
sprang out of nowhere sometime in the early nineteen-fifties.
The academics and other skeptics were dead wrong. A.P.V.I. was
real. The tremendous specimen still holding my hand with that
content killer grin on his face was as strong a physical evidence
for their existence as my own breathing, thinking, and moving
about was unequivocal proof of my limited and much down-sized being.
They had never espoused secrecy. They had never attempted to be
underground or take cover behind another entity. What had baffled
the academics for so long was the sheer A. P. V. I. obviousness in
its sharp contradiction to any form of reason or theoretical
self-consistency. For them, the organization could not be simply
because it did not make sense for it to be. There was no apparent
purpose or function the organization served, no social or political
manifesto, no economic benefit, no membership fees, no coherence.
How much astray can reason lead you in a world of irrationality!
- I thought. As far as I was concerned, though, their most intriguing
feature, if one could call it so, was that membership was not
voluntary and not even necessarily known by the members. Years of
reading all available literature, most of which painstakingly compiled
by Panos K., endless hours in dusty library vaults and barely known
web-sites, exhausting searches in fitness centers, unwelcome
inquiries at baseball games that seemed to have no end, all had led
me to the conclusion that the organization had grown to include
millions of members most of whom knew nothing about belonging to it.
What connected them together? What was actually happening?
Where would or could this lead? The mountain of muscle in front
of me, consciously or subconsciously, must hold the answers to my
questions, at least to some of them.
"I'm an independent researcher and would like to know more about
your society", I said in a voice harsh from running and cold,
my overcoat dripping on the meticulously stretched carpet. "It's
not official or anything like that; just simple journalistic
curiosity. And a little personal interest too, I might add." At
this he examined me head to toes, his grin permanently affixed on
his cheeks that seemed to protrude further out than his ears, his
thick, short neck barely carved out of his chin. It was obvious
to him, I was not a member, not even an involuntary one.
As he stood up to greet me, he had moved to the side of the desk
revealing to me, for the first time, a polished metal plate,
displayed low on the wall behind the desk, engraved with his
name: "ROBERT J. VAN KERCHOFF, REGIONAL VICE DIRECTOR, A.P.W.I".
Strange, I thought, why was there a "W" instead of a "V"? A simple
spelling error? That was to be expected, perhaps, but in all those
volumes of perfection how could they have overlooked something so
obvious? He caught my glance. "Oh, that?", he asked almost laughing.
"We spell it with a 'W' to emphasize volume". I realized I had
much to learn. Why did he not have a regular name plate on his
desk? Was there an actual shade of thinking under the weight of
overpowering physicality? - Some rationale connecting the apparently
mismatched pieces of the puzzle?
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TO BE CONTINUED.... (JUST FOR LAUGHS)
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Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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A.P.V.I. - A STRANGE STORY, PART I
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Posted:Oct 19, 2005 4:03 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:19 pm
2392 Views
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It was raining in the small town of Pella. It was pouring down
so heavily it could wash away all the guilt of every reformed
christian in Polk County, Iowa. The residents of this clean town
that featured a church, a bank, and a chiropractor in every block,
had a good excuse, that evening, to practice what they always did:
stay inside and watch TV before going to bed shortly after sunset.
Next morning there would be so much lawn to trim, so many sins
to repent of, so many deals to make, so many muscles
to exercise, so much weight to lose that even before sunrise
they would have to be on their feet, busy at the daily tasks.
It is never too early to feel bad about oneself and never
too soon to cleanse one's city of the unfit and the unwanted.
Running along a neat sidewalk under a parade of signs
with names like "Van Heck" or "Van Den Kuipper", past numerous
bakeries boasting over their fresh pastry and the all prominent
Dutch windmil - the tallest in the country, I was told - seeking
cover from the ferocity of nature, drenched and tired, I entered
the small establishment at a street corner where, to my surprise
and relief, the lights were still on. A huge man was sitting
at a tidy desk, in front of a very modern computer terminal,
starring at the keyboard with an expression of obvious
perplexion on his face. He must have been around thirty five,
well over six feet tall, with enormously broad shoulders on which
a small, well groomed head rested comfortably and perhaps comically.
His arms were thicker than my thighs. His very expensive black suit
was punctuated by a bright golden-yellow tie, decorated with a pin,
shinning over an impecable white shirt. His gold watch was peeking
out of his startched sleeve, pretentiously shy, advertising its
lavish existence. The man looked like an American football
player but not the type that ends up as a coach, chewing gum
with a headset on in front of TV cameras. He was rather like a
first-line player who evolves into a career sports-caster,
projecting his masculinity with a huge phallus-shaped microphone
in his hand, blubbering about the anticipated achievements
of a local college team that bears some wild animal name.
When he became aware of my presence - and it took him several
minutes - he lifted his small bewildered eyes and, as though
he were talking to himself, he said: "Can't figure this out,
buddy! On the screen it reads 'press any key to continue'.
For half an hour I've been trying to find this 'any' key
but it ain't nowhere, man!" Instantly I knew I had found
the place I was looking for: the regional headquarters of
the society known as 'animal Power Voluminous Ignorance',
A.P.V.I., in short. I had extensively read about this organization,
whose existence was questioned my many academic specialists,
and had tried to find it for a long time. The first reference
appeared in a short story, a "historia perierge", by a brilliant
yet obscure author, called Panos K. Following a line of tiny
clues I had found myself, that wet and dark evening, wandering
along the empty streets of Pella, waiting for traffic lights to
turn green for pedestrians before crossing - in Pella jay-walking
is a misdemeanor and the all-too-stern county micro-brain cops
would be excessively professional in exercising their physical
power over the tresspasser.
"Try pressing 'Enter'!", said I, more interested in being out of
the rain than in a conversation over operating a computer.
"Man!", he cried out, "are you a genious or what? It worked! By
the way, good evening! I'm Bob Van Kerchoff. I don't have
many visitors here. What can I do for you?", he got up and extended
his huge hand-shake that almost broke my fingers with its congeniality.
"Hi! I'm Paul Olitraux. Pleased to meet you", I offered a reply,
hesitant to give my real name to an apparent A.P.V.I. official.
-----------
TO BE CONTINUED... (JUST FOR LAUGHS)
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Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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2
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Comical encounters
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Posted:Oct 13, 2005 5:14 pm
Last Updated:Mar 5, 2006 9:27 pm
2134 Views
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I guess it is my turn to ask a survey
question. So, here it goes: Have you had any
comical erotic encounters of the kind that
makes you laugh at the situation and even
yourself? If so, then how did they happen?
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7
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CONVERSATION WITH JACQUES PREVERT
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Posted:Oct 8, 2005 6:51 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:20 pm
2106 Views
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Father is doing business
selling everything
at the highest price.
Mother is doing housework
buying everything
at the lowest price.
The is fighting a war
knowing not what
the enemy is or why.
And the ?
What is the doing?
The
is watching a bird,
standing on a wire,
singing alone.
Summer becomes autumn
and autumn winter.
Father continues
doing business
always selling
at the highest price.
Mother continues
doing housework
buying it all
at the lowest price.
The does not continue.
The was killed
in the war.
He will never know
the enemy was a mirror
or why.
And the ?
Oh, the
keeps watching
the little bird, now,
frozen on the wire,
in a state of
silent near-motion!
Oh, the frozen bird
of frozen motion!
Nearly alive,
it continues
its frozen flight
without the father
or the mother
or the
who is no longer.
The 's eyes
in the window
keep missing hours
on the bird that
won't fly away.
Ten o'clock
is after nine
- she thinks -
sometimes, perhaps
but not today.
---------------------------
This is based on "Familial" by Jacques Prevert
but it turns in a different direction.
---------------------------
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
Note Today my mind is saddened by the
enormous death toll and the catastrophes
in Central Asia and South America.
Sometimes life is too heavy a burden
to bear but we must go on.
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TO BE IS VACUUM
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Posted:Oct 5, 2005 9:46 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:20 pm
2021 Views
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The cistern is almost empty, no rain for days.
Echo of splashing droplets on a water surface.
Thin, circular waves diffusing towards the walls.
Wetness. Green walls, full of moss and cold.
The lichen suck the life of the rock.
Silence. An event without audience. Lack of light.
At the turn of the world the cistern follows
without witness, a bubble inside solid granite.
Water is too little for lips that hardly know how to taste.
Their fever is dynastic. Their kiss is for the stone.
Vision does not float on the wave nor does it sink.
Only hearing can discern the pulse of time
trapped in the sound of dripping stalactites.
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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6
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YOUNG POET
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Posted:Oct 2, 2005 7:20 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2006 4:20 pm
1981 Views
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To the old poet Theophilos
the young poet Archilochos
addressed this inquiry:
"Master, what should I do
to achieve your greatness?"
But Theophilos would not answer.
He looked inside his mind
to touch the unhealing wounds,
his consuming sorrow,
the rare sparks of joyousness
that froze time for a moment
only to thaw it again
into even deeper pain,
the root of his work.
How much did he wish
to be a young, aspiring man.
How much did he desire
not to behold this poetry,
this blind, burning need
that cannot be contained,
the distance to his own self.
"Do not be me", said he finally.
"Go Archilochos, go your way.
But do not be me".
-----------------
A brief and simple contribution to the
current discussion on poetry initiated
by GoddessofTheDawn at this site.
-----------------
Copyright 2005 by interested13563
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