I think of you throughout the day,
I think about you late at night
I think about you when I'm hungry
Or when my trousers feel too tight.
I think of the curve your lips have
I consider your waist and hip
I pause to ponder that scar of yours
As I hunger for your lip.
Your eyes dance fierce and bright
My dear, your laugh sings high and strong
I only think of you, my dear,
When I think how life is long.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Where I live
Dogs in the street
pull at pizza boxes.
Old car windows empty
except at the edges.
Walking at night
I see so little;
In the day I know
where I live.
pull at pizza boxes.
Old car windows empty
except at the edges.
Walking at night
I see so little;
In the day I know
where I live.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
What is to be said of the Chinese film?
It is full of colors in every frame.
The cinematography is impeccable.
It ends in death for every person.
Every army wears a different color, and all are magnificent.
Each character betrays another:
One of love of daughter
One of love of mother
One of love of lover
One of love of life;
But the end is this:
the emperor knows best
and punishes incest.
It is full of colors in every frame.
The cinematography is impeccable.
It ends in death for every person.
Every army wears a different color, and all are magnificent.
Each character betrays another:
One of love of daughter
One of love of mother
One of love of lover
One of love of life;
But the end is this:
the emperor knows best
and punishes incest.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Fugio
I am nothing other than time. Time and agreement – a temporary living arrangement between some carbon and some oxygen, some hydrogen and nitrogen atoms who migrate in and out at all hours, carrying supply to meet demand. (As I typed that last sentence a babbling group of foul-smelling methane molecules made it past the last border checkpoint – and in a zone far north, thermally charged caffeine and lactose molecules were admitted.) L’etat – cest moi!
But though the molecules themselves be most apparent, make no mistake, it is the time in which I swim. My constitution carries an addendum – a morbid post-script scribbled at the bottom, making clear the genre in which I act, “This message will self-destruct in ___ “ And there a careless clerk has left a t uncrossed, as it were, and an empty opening, left to be filled in later, comes to dominate by virtue of the power invested in its emptiness. It yawns at me in the morning -my telomeres are ticking, my stem-cells running thin.
I see my hands before me now – the hair upon the knuckles which I burn back with an old cigarette lighter left over from years ago when I still smoked – the hair upon the knuckles which I burn back when it becomes long enough to reach out and touch another finger – I see my hands before me now – and I see the beginning of the first liver-spot. The first spot – yes – but not the first sign of the impending revolution – no – there have been others. The sound my knees and wrists and ankles make have been with me for years – but only recently has rising from bed begun to sound like a string of small, pathetic fire-crackers – hair has long harbored in my nose, and for years even my ears have produced hair with an abundance and energy usually more assoiciated with the fierce and misplaced fecundity of youth – but now abundance has doubled down upon abundance, but instead of pliable and whispy young tender shoots I put forth black stalks of the kind to be found upon the more intimate zones of a matronly rhino.
The silver has sparkled in the lines beneath my lips for some years now – some ladies say they find it attractive – which doesn’t stop it being what it is – a sign the times has left lying across my face, encircling my lips, so that whatever words I offer are seen as emerging from a well of wisdom distilled from experience, as opposed to the fresh leaping genius of youth.
I am time – time cest moi. I am conscious of time – I am self-conscious. I know well the potholes of my road, and I watch them deepen with mounting alarm.
But though the molecules themselves be most apparent, make no mistake, it is the time in which I swim. My constitution carries an addendum – a morbid post-script scribbled at the bottom, making clear the genre in which I act, “This message will self-destruct in ___ “ And there a careless clerk has left a t uncrossed, as it were, and an empty opening, left to be filled in later, comes to dominate by virtue of the power invested in its emptiness. It yawns at me in the morning -my telomeres are ticking, my stem-cells running thin.
I see my hands before me now – the hair upon the knuckles which I burn back with an old cigarette lighter left over from years ago when I still smoked – the hair upon the knuckles which I burn back when it becomes long enough to reach out and touch another finger – I see my hands before me now – and I see the beginning of the first liver-spot. The first spot – yes – but not the first sign of the impending revolution – no – there have been others. The sound my knees and wrists and ankles make have been with me for years – but only recently has rising from bed begun to sound like a string of small, pathetic fire-crackers – hair has long harbored in my nose, and for years even my ears have produced hair with an abundance and energy usually more assoiciated with the fierce and misplaced fecundity of youth – but now abundance has doubled down upon abundance, but instead of pliable and whispy young tender shoots I put forth black stalks of the kind to be found upon the more intimate zones of a matronly rhino.
The silver has sparkled in the lines beneath my lips for some years now – some ladies say they find it attractive – which doesn’t stop it being what it is – a sign the times has left lying across my face, encircling my lips, so that whatever words I offer are seen as emerging from a well of wisdom distilled from experience, as opposed to the fresh leaping genius of youth.
I am time – time cest moi. I am conscious of time – I am self-conscious. I know well the potholes of my road, and I watch them deepen with mounting alarm.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
What I hope to achieve
I have babbled, I believe, at great length about the list I have made for my life. I recently found out that it can be called a bucket list. Unfortunately for me, I find the very sound-quality of this name distasteful and trivializing. Nuff-sed.
I have been recently adding to, explicating, and regrouping this list. Actually, I should say it in plural, these lists, as it is really more than one. There are reading lists, travelling lists, learning lists, etc. Sometimes the handling of these lists is nothing more than a mental vacation - a quick visit to fantasy land, a reshuffling of the cards, and mental fondling of fantasies - at other times I consult or work with the lists in order to check on a goal, or add to, or modify it. I don't mind, I don't criticize myself if I find myself using the lists for a momentary bit of fantasy fuel and escapism - I don't discourage this at all - because if I am escaping into a world of my own goals for my life, then at the very least I am keeping my dreams in front of my eyes that I may not forget what aspirations I have.
In doing so, a number of questions have occurred to me, regarding the nature of the list. For example - what value is there in the fulfillment of a goal? As a specific example - If my goal was to climb mount Kilimanjaro - what if sudden illness or accident took me at 500 meters from the top - would I count that goal achieved? If the goal I wrote down was to read the Masnavi, and after finishing a gruellingly nasty book-length translation I note that this was only book six of the entire poem - must I continue? If my goal was to achieve conversational fluency in a total of 5 languages - if I end up with three, was it a total wash? If my goal was to learn to cook five things really well - does french toast count as one? If my goal was to earn a black-belt, but the martial art I have fallen into does not have belt rankings - do I need to take up a new sport, or once I achieve instructor status, is that enough? Furthermore - what if I don't fulfill a goal - how much of a failure is that?
By asking these (no doubt trivial to anyone with real things on their mind) questions, I am pushed into examining the reasons FOR the list - the role I expect it, want it to play in my life. I realized at one point that the point of entering a marathon was not to be able to cross the finish line. Were that the case, they could just start everybody 20 meters from the finish line and be done with it. The finish line exists only as an arbitrary marker to delineate the defining edge of an experience, with the experience, the achievement, the value within, located in the experience that is in every step of the way. Minus the experience of the pain and sweat and cramps that dog your every step of the road, the finish line is meaningless.
Thus - if I become sick 500 meters from the top of Kilimanjaro, I shall regard it as a success to have travelled to Tanzania, to have talked with the people there, to have confronted the logistics of planning, to have learned about the mountain, to have felt the pain of the climb - all of that, even minus the summit, makes it a success.
On the other hand, if by counting French Toast as one thing I can cook, I learn nothing, then this goal was meaningless.
Which reveals to me that the main goal of my list is to establish arbitrary points, far enough removed from my present condition that by the time I am near that point, I will have travelled sufficient distance to have (inshallah) learned sufficient or experienced sufficient that I am left changed by the experience. In other words, the end goal of this list is not to do the thing, but to mold myself.
If my goals stay largely unmet, but in the process of struggling I have molded my body and my mind into a finer tool, or molded myself into a finer person, then it was a great success. The man is molded by his experiences, and the goals are but arbitrary points established sufficiently far removed from myself that in the process of there arriving I may find myself changed by the experience.
Today, by the way, I will be working toward my goal of 100 pushups - (website here: http://hundredpushups.com/) and studying the constellations (I have picked 18.) I may even crawl through my ceiling and see if I can spot any stars from my roof. And in between I will be reading "Culture and Imperialism" by Edward Said - (or, failing that, I might just watch "Game of Thrones" on my computer - we shall see!)
I have been recently adding to, explicating, and regrouping this list. Actually, I should say it in plural, these lists, as it is really more than one. There are reading lists, travelling lists, learning lists, etc. Sometimes the handling of these lists is nothing more than a mental vacation - a quick visit to fantasy land, a reshuffling of the cards, and mental fondling of fantasies - at other times I consult or work with the lists in order to check on a goal, or add to, or modify it. I don't mind, I don't criticize myself if I find myself using the lists for a momentary bit of fantasy fuel and escapism - I don't discourage this at all - because if I am escaping into a world of my own goals for my life, then at the very least I am keeping my dreams in front of my eyes that I may not forget what aspirations I have.
In doing so, a number of questions have occurred to me, regarding the nature of the list. For example - what value is there in the fulfillment of a goal? As a specific example - If my goal was to climb mount Kilimanjaro - what if sudden illness or accident took me at 500 meters from the top - would I count that goal achieved? If the goal I wrote down was to read the Masnavi, and after finishing a gruellingly nasty book-length translation I note that this was only book six of the entire poem - must I continue? If my goal was to achieve conversational fluency in a total of 5 languages - if I end up with three, was it a total wash? If my goal was to learn to cook five things really well - does french toast count as one? If my goal was to earn a black-belt, but the martial art I have fallen into does not have belt rankings - do I need to take up a new sport, or once I achieve instructor status, is that enough? Furthermore - what if I don't fulfill a goal - how much of a failure is that?
By asking these (no doubt trivial to anyone with real things on their mind) questions, I am pushed into examining the reasons FOR the list - the role I expect it, want it to play in my life. I realized at one point that the point of entering a marathon was not to be able to cross the finish line. Were that the case, they could just start everybody 20 meters from the finish line and be done with it. The finish line exists only as an arbitrary marker to delineate the defining edge of an experience, with the experience, the achievement, the value within, located in the experience that is in every step of the way. Minus the experience of the pain and sweat and cramps that dog your every step of the road, the finish line is meaningless.
Thus - if I become sick 500 meters from the top of Kilimanjaro, I shall regard it as a success to have travelled to Tanzania, to have talked with the people there, to have confronted the logistics of planning, to have learned about the mountain, to have felt the pain of the climb - all of that, even minus the summit, makes it a success.
On the other hand, if by counting French Toast as one thing I can cook, I learn nothing, then this goal was meaningless.
Which reveals to me that the main goal of my list is to establish arbitrary points, far enough removed from my present condition that by the time I am near that point, I will have travelled sufficient distance to have (inshallah) learned sufficient or experienced sufficient that I am left changed by the experience. In other words, the end goal of this list is not to do the thing, but to mold myself.
If my goals stay largely unmet, but in the process of struggling I have molded my body and my mind into a finer tool, or molded myself into a finer person, then it was a great success. The man is molded by his experiences, and the goals are but arbitrary points established sufficiently far removed from myself that in the process of there arriving I may find myself changed by the experience.
Today, by the way, I will be working toward my goal of 100 pushups - (website here: http://hundredpushups.com/) and studying the constellations (I have picked 18.) I may even crawl through my ceiling and see if I can spot any stars from my roof. And in between I will be reading "Culture and Imperialism" by Edward Said - (or, failing that, I might just watch "Game of Thrones" on my computer - we shall see!)
Of the wealth of nations no end
I cannot adequately express, without descent into cloyingly trite-sounding language, the depths of gratitude and joy that walk with me through my day to day life.
Of course, I have moments many of annoyance impatience apprehension daily, but the emotion dominant my days throughout is the feeling of deep and abiding gratitude - thankfulness - recognition of gifts given undeserved to me.
From the sun upon the skin to the shimmer of the water the raven black in silhouette that perches upon the marbled minaret rail the coffee so common the flowers profusion the salad I lazily consume.
The books upon my shelf the bag my books surrounds the endless cups of dark sugared tea consumed in gardens green sheltered in shady by floating ivy trellis the photos of her eyes heavy-lidded locked in an embrace with death made manifest in brass - the muscles (mine) that scream or creak or cry - whiskey glass rum glass small cherry tomato walnuts.
The sweat slicks and neck aches and wrist cracking - for these I am grateful - the hip hand-hollowed, the tenders exposed - the dust and the ants that own my kitchen - the jeans my ass over, the blanket my bed upon - sniffs, yawns, sighs, even students complaining - for all this, Lord, I give thanks.
Of course, I have moments many of annoyance impatience apprehension daily, but the emotion dominant my days throughout is the feeling of deep and abiding gratitude - thankfulness - recognition of gifts given undeserved to me.
From the sun upon the skin to the shimmer of the water the raven black in silhouette that perches upon the marbled minaret rail the coffee so common the flowers profusion the salad I lazily consume.
The books upon my shelf the bag my books surrounds the endless cups of dark sugared tea consumed in gardens green sheltered in shady by floating ivy trellis the photos of her eyes heavy-lidded locked in an embrace with death made manifest in brass - the muscles (mine) that scream or creak or cry - whiskey glass rum glass small cherry tomato walnuts.
The sweat slicks and neck aches and wrist cracking - for these I am grateful - the hip hand-hollowed, the tenders exposed - the dust and the ants that own my kitchen - the jeans my ass over, the blanket my bed upon - sniffs, yawns, sighs, even students complaining - for all this, Lord, I give thanks.
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