Written by
Laure-Anne Bosselaar |
Look at this storm, the idiot,
pouring its heart out here, of all places,
an industrial suburb on a Sunday,
soaking nothing but cinder-block
and parking lots,
wasting its breath on smokeless
smoke-stacks, not even a trash can
to send rumbling through the streets.
And that lightning bolt, forking itself
to death, to hit
nothing — what a waste.
What if I hadn’t been here, lost too,
four in the morning, driving around
in a jean-shirt over my night-gown,
reciting Baudelaire aloud —
like an idiot ¬— unable to sleep,
scared to death by my longing for it,
death, so early in the morning, driving
until the longing runs on empty?
The windshield wipers can’t
keep up with this deluge,
and I almost run over it, a flapping
white thing in the middle of the street.
I step out, it’s a gull, one leg
caught in a red plastic net
snared around its neck.
I throw my shirt over the shrieking thing,
take it back to the car, search my bag
for something, anything, find a nail file,
start sawing at the net.
The gull is huge, filthy, it shits
on my shirt, pecks at me — idiot, I’m trying
to save you. I slip a sleeve over its head,
hold it down with one hand, saw, cut,
pull with the other,
free the leg, the neck,
wrap the gull again, hold it against me,
fighting for its life, its crazed heart
beats against mine. I put my package
on the hood, open the shirt, and
there it goes, letting the wind
push it, suck it into a cloud; then it’s
gone — like some vague, inhuman
longing — as the rain lifts, and the suburbs
emerge in dirty white light.
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Written by
Dejan Stojanovic |
If we had true insight
We would be scared to death,
We would not be able to see anything,
We would see everything and see nothing.
Senses empower limitations,
Senses expand vision within borders,
Senses promote understanding through pleasure.
Without pleasure there is no sight or measure.
Total knowledge is annihilation
Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel
The world sensed only through senses
And immune to the knowledge without feeling.
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Written by
Edgar Lee Masters |
At first I suspected something --
She acted so calm and absent-minded.
And one day I heard the back door shut,
As I entered the front, and I saw him slink
Back of the smokehouse into the lot,
And run across the field.
And I meant to kill him on sight.
But that day, walking near Fourth Bridge,
Without a stick or a stone at hand,
All of a sudden I saw him standing,
Scared to death, holding his rabbits,
And all I could say was, "Don't, Don't, Don't,"
As he aimed and fired at my heart.
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