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| One line poem:
"Questions Raised By Alison's Desire to Pursue a Career in Forensics"
Deep down a Dexter in disguise?
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| And then there was the night
he stole all the covers
and I lay there so still,
hands even at my sides, until
you came in and
exclaimed, "Look at you!
Sleeping there like a corpse!"
not noticing how every
muscle had stiffened
in my bed by the window.
I smiled meekly as he continued to
snore in a curl next to me, and
though I was without a blanket,
looking at you in the doorway
I was warm.
Now I am that corpse
shallowly flung into the
freshly dug up earth
clawing at the crumbles of dirt
beneath my fingernails,
forgotten but revisited in memory,
or a lost dog whose picture
is on a handmade sign
tacked up on aged wooden
poles that people ignore
as they bustle to work,
the corners espousing my last known
whereabouts slapping in the wind.
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| The City by C. P. Cavafy
Translated by Edmund Keeley
You said: "I'll go to another country. go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally."
You won't find a new country, won't find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You'll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere:
there's no ship for you, there's no road.
Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere in the world. | | |
| I wake once more from a dream wherein
I see a blonde pixie-like female
and know instinctively her name is Jessica.
I blink the sleep from nocturnally adjusting eyes,
press forefingers against the temporal headache,
hunting for the solution, the thread that binds the truth.
Everything felt so real, and then I realize... it is.
I draw from the ether, or I am made.
Is it written in the dying light?
We shall see.
We shall see.
It takes so long to reach us. | | |
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"Wisdom tells me I am nothing.
Love tells me I am everything.
Between the two my life flows."
- Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj | | |
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