I prefer someone who stands out from the crowd, not someone who thinks like everyone I’ve encountered.
I have tried to write paradise
Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise.
Jupiter, you look beautiful tonight.
I miss my telescope. The fact that it is 1300 miles away and being neglected drives me mad.
Watching storm clouds surrounded by stars light up with lightening; the rain feels so nice tonight.
Ahh, I would choose happiness, although, it’s always fleeting..
I tend to find happiness in the infinite. Science, mathematics, music and poetry makes me happy. Nature, snow, light, dark, silence, the ocean: that’s happiness to me.
Thank you, oh so much.
You can go blind, waiting
except for their
Moving the sea around
Unbelievable quiet inside you, as they change
the face of water
The only other time I felt this still was watching Leif shoot up when
we were twelve
Sunlight all over his face
the surface of something
I couldn’t see
You can wait your
The Himalayas are on the move, appearing and disappearing in the snow in the Himalayas
begins to fill
the half-dead auditorium
giant step by
My grandfather walks across the front porch
spotted with cancer, smoking
a black cigar
The whales fold themselves back and back inside the long hallways of
You have to stare back at the salt
the sliding mirrors
just to see something
for the last time
By now they are asleep
some are asleep
on the bottom of the world
sucking the world in
and blowing it out
Leif laid his head back on a pillow and waiting for all the blood inside him
to flush down
After seeing whales what do you see?
The hills behind the freeway
the green sea.” —Michael Dickman, Seeing Whales
In the beginning the sound of holes, and the weight of treason and light paper streamers. and a hundred-fold, and below; and the girls with thickening braids, wet paper maps, brought round at last to see the slick animal caught in the rain. and the deluge; and the dark; and the story past the window..
and the window
and the stutter
and the thought was insubstantial, and stained; and the hands were limpid, and sought; and the children scattered in front of the wagon like increasing wind. and the pen that drew your name, and the one that would not; and a child with a small box of crayons, not yet opened; and the positioning of fingers and wrists..
and my hand was a token of yours
and the trees, pulled backwards.
Impossible even to say a word
An alphabet has been stored beneath the ground
It is a practice alphabet, work of the hand
Yet not, not marks inside a box
For example, this is a mirror box
Spinoza designed such a box
and called it the Eighth Sky
called it the Nevercadabra House
as a joke
Yet not, not so much a joke
not Notes for Electronic Harp
on a day free of sounds
(but I meant to write “clouds”)
At night these same boulevards fill with snow
Lancers and dancers pass a poisoned syringe,
as you wrote, writing of death in the snow,
Patroclus and a Pharoah on Rue Ravignan
It is scribbled across each body
Impossible even to name a word
Look, you would say, how the sky falls
at first gently, then not at all
Two chemicals within the firefly are the cause,
twin ships, twin nemeses
preparing to metamorphose
into an alphabet in stone.” —Michael Palmer, Eighth Sky
Make a list
of everything that’s
on fire –
Your mother burned down to the skeleton
so she could come back, born back from her bed, and walk around the
house again, exhausted
When you look down
what is there?
You are a walking bag of surgical instruments
shining from the inside out
and that’s just
Tomorrow it could be different
When I think of the childhood inside me I think of sunlight dying on
The voices of my friends
in the sunlight
All of us running around
The numbing of love lost hums blackbirds into hypnosis.
I tucked my teeth into the creases of your hand,
Asked you to hide them until I was ready to eat again.
In the sockets of our eyes, we hide gold wedding bands.
We stuff our mouths with chocolate as we cross the border.
In Morocco, women carry hot coals in their bare hands.
Searching for water, they make fires along the way.
Loving a boy at seventeen is different.
I loved him so hard my spine slid through my back.
Who will remember your fingers?
Their winged life? They flew
With the light in your look.
At the piano, stomping out hits from the forties,
They performed an incidental clowning
Routine of their own, deadpan puppets.
You were only concerned to get them to the keys.
But as you talked, as your eyes signalled
The strobes of your elation,
They flared, flicked balletic aerobatics.
I thought of birds in some tropical sexual
Play of display, leaping and somersaulting,
Doing strange things in the air, and dropping to the dust.
Those dancers of your excess!
With such deft, practical touches—-so accurate.
Thinking their own thoughts caressed like lightning
The lipstick into your mouth corners.
Trim conductors of your expertise,
Cavorting at your typewriter,
Possessed by infant spirit, puckish,
Who, whatever they did, danced or mimed it
In a weightless largesse of espressivo.
I remember your fingers. And your daughter’s
Fingers remember your fingers
In everything they do.
Her fingers obey and honour your fingers,
The Lares and Penates of our house.
from the prison library, and I know why
his hands are careful not to break the brittle pages.” —Martín Espada
I lie for a long time in the dark,
and I listen to you sleeping next to me, as a dog does,
on the shore of slow water from which shadows
and reflections rise, silent butterflies.
Last night you spoke in your sleep,
almost whining, talking of a wall
too high to climb down, towards the sea
seen only by you, distant and gleaming.
Playfully I whispered, Just calm down,
it isn’t all that high, we could make it.
whether down below there was sand to land on,
or black rock.
Sand, I answered, sand. And in your dream
maybe we dove together.” —Fabio Pusterla