It’s 2013, and there’s still a species of hope that the Old Man will survive. He’s had both legs amputated at the hip, but discussions are still about when he can come home to Australia. Perhaps that just could indicate that hope is a euphemism for denial, but nonetheless we rally together to help him….
Claims of being Zen Regarding blog statistics Lying to myself
How can we know the end of the storm? Or hope for the day when the leeches no longer crawl up our thighs? If the rain never ceases, And the answer for everything is ‘Kill.’
We’re going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we’re doing, you can say, We’re remembering. That’s where we’ll win out in the long run. And someday we’ll remember so much that we’ll build the biggest goddamn…
Meaningful fractures The graffiti of the gods Not in this language
It’s a dream of horsefly bitesand graven imagesAnd it’s not really my problemIt’s really not fair either.And the grass is safer than anythingwill be again.Not my job, bossNot today.Let me sleep soundly without the intrusionof angelslost villagesin a littleBuckled World
The dawn, the dying of the night. Not the birth of the day. Farewell to troubled sleep and the whisperings of the dead. No conifers to collude in suspicious huddles, white are the endless passages of command. Here flowers never cease here the birds scream their lyrics. Here the grass grows reluctantly and nothing is…
Nothing else but the spaces where snow will not rest. And grass is hibernating-waiting beneath the curve of Winter’s breast. Amid all this yellow and pink he will ride his bicycle so fast, shoot heroin, go to prison and cry at the death of my father before it happens. Don’t relapse.
The sabres are drawn Rattling for all they are worth Still, meadow grass grows
“Nothing can last forever, ” my father says as he parks our sky-blue Citróen 2CV under the shade of a cluster of birch trees. The last mile or two of road has wound its way through the dappled forest on a leaf strewn unsealed road, that has coiled its way in sinusoidal arcs slowly upward….
Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. Ernest Hemingway
Before anything else, deep and pure Those soft leaves flow like a hoard of emeralds To a backdrop of rivers, pines, hills and mountains and plucked. Two hands arise and ask the world for a moment in its momentous swelling rise. And dry air to wither them and burn into lungs that scolded, and lived…
Amethyst Sky waits Snowflakes are strewn like corpses, Resurrection spring
Rising and falling like motes above an infinite world of pale gold They fold into all the dimensions They grasp at the roots of limestone. A larch grabbed at me by the arm and left cat’s cradle on my arm Buried my shoes in the rich earth Cried for the leaving of contrails Should have…
A blade of grass is a commonplace on Earth; it would be a miracle on Mars. Our descendants on Mars will know the value of a patch of green. And if a blade of grass is priceless, what is the value of a human being? Carl Sagan