"come now, let us reason together," written honestly for liars who don't care: gold unpolished isn't gold they say, although in Jerusalem it always sells the same between friends.
"i love you: farewell," the books explained from boxes by the pond; i think he meant to drown himself with literature. tomorrow, i'll ask him why, knowing no answer exists; he'll only say he needed leaving left alone.
"awake, why sleepest thou, oh Lord?" Petersborough's grave chronicler silently mourns divine silence. we agree, but don't admit to it: priests toss at night praying prayers aren't empty thoughts. our petty minds mumble such Celestial formalities.
"I wept," he admitted to the biographer, but why he never could explain. and never rude enough to ask, Lazarus leapt to his second death wondering why he'd been let fall slowly to the first.
"i am on your side," but: 2+2 must equal 5, we must condemn Julia and O'Brien must have control, control, control: even of the sand bead on your journal. your side must be his, Winston, then will his be yours.
"ask, seek, knock, and it shall be given to you," it was so honestly said so long ago, but who ever undestood it? men will always gorge themselves on greedy prayers: that's not what he intended, is it? but where, o where was all that holy fine print?
let me tell you a story i heard. it goes like this: we are just dust, to dust returning. and between--
a story, poorly told. he had leukemia and he loved men, so when he died it was
the secretary, from the office: she was the one
arguing with his sister about the homosexual body.
the judge decided it ought to be cremated
according to his will, which he wrote for nobody;
i never heard who got the jar. i wonder about that.
months later, i sat outside and burned in the sun; then, picking off my baked skin, i thought: we peel like onions, then decay into dust. in a few years
we'll be but shimmers in our grandchildren's sunlight. that is, if anyone's there at death except the office secretary. well,
that's a sad story; i should have never told it, except
there was no one else to tell. neither life nor grave:
he's just dust, to dust returned. so between, i put--a story,
poorly told.
Civilizations drip from history's faucet: mildly appearing, we slowly swell, and pause in the balance--then fall, fall into fathomless dark below. And another appears behind.
if you have a pretty girl hold her close, hold her close for she won't stay long, no she won't stay long with you. when you hold your pretty girl kiss her lips, kiss her lips, oh for she won't stay long she won't stay long with you.
if you have a pretty child hold her close, hold her close for she won't stay long, no she won't stay long a youth. and when you hold your pretty child kiss her lips, kiss her lips, oh for she won't stay long she won't stay long a youth.
and oh! there was life in my lungs, oh love! there was so much we had to hold, oh! we stood on the edge of it all, but we had to let go-
but oh! there are so many years to come, love! so much we have yet to hold, oh! we stand on the edge of it all, we but have to let go-
These black lines, they carry civilization under rubber coats.
Yellow droplets in a dark hill (porch lights on suburban avenues) and the blinking red or white beacons on our dark horizons: they all drip from these black stretched lines, which hang from frowning iron maidens and a forest of pole-stripped trees.
The black lines sway, carrying our pictures and songs and so many conversations --silently quieting violent instinct, the blanket of black lines bleeds a pool of light keeping us safe from us and from the man in the gutter with the shadowy lips-- and a storm is swirling in a cloud's mind.
Huge wind runs through and around my eyes looking up at the black lines now snapping, whipping, pulling at their raised anchors: Nature struggling against the lilliputian strings that tie her children to the earth in pretty hats and scarves; her barbarian worshipers now wear cologne and combovers.
She knows who is to blame, for long before this net of black lines descended, her sons were free: angrily she pulls at these protecting, enslaving cords.
A black line breaks! and the patchwork hill darkens, distant yellow droplets dry up and the beacons, no more red or white strobes, become ghost-grey hilltop towers; new barbarians let grow their wild beards, look skyward from blackened porches to reclaim their forgotten matriarch.
The street lights are silent on Fifth and Main: I peer into night skies long passed.
Every time I leave one of the main buildings in my life--apartment, work, school--I check to make sure I have possession of my wallet, keys, phone, and glasses. To myself, I've taken to calling these the four horsemen.So that takes care of the title; now you don't have to finish the book.
... [all textbooks should be written in this fashion, and i should write every one.]