The shortest day gives way to the longest night. Of course. The street, this building, quieter than usual, perhaps everyone gone, travelling home, or just asleep. The hour is late, maybe the emptiness woke me, that big, smooth zero, like a rock of ice. You know it would float. That doesn’t make sense, I know. Of course. But that doesn’t make it wrong, either. Harbingers, suddenly listening to Tom Waits, craving a racket. There are […]
infinita tristeza again and again on the radio a soft rain walking up the hill llorar, he’s singing about the sea a slow walk with too much time to think viento de Washington he sings as if he knows you’d roll your eyes like you always do so stingy with words I’d disagree Manu en cuanto a la tristeza it’s a desert only and dying of thirst but yes, slowly
Lost in some forest north of the city, the driver returns the wedding guests home, some somewhat drunk, a song rises up, hoarse, flamenco– staccato clapping, the rutted road, headlights bathing the night fog in gold. There is no place to be now, the wedding guests are returning home, with newly-softened gazes, reminded again of love, the road turning in on itself, laughter, fake despair. The wedding over, the driver drives the wedding guests somewhere, […]
The day’s calvacade, a clatter of hours– this life could use more sotto, more legato. A thing is more striking given the proper setting: Consider a spotlight in its wealth of darkness. The weight of a caesura. Excursive silence.
Love like sleep on a late autumn day– come in from the cold and settled in place. Relief compared to being out by the lake in all this rain, caught in the rage of branches in a squall– a leitmotif, the urge toward the perilous, but this the theme: I return to returning (da capo al fine) even setting out I draw closer to you.
Deaf from the show collapsing into sleep you are always in my dreams now felt if unseen like a baseline or reverb or the two words I now hear over and over tú sólo tú sólo tú sólo tú
More variable rain impulsive preordained in the way that a song is . and trust is not wholly incompatible with doubt or why such relief as a progression plays out? . these days it’s too hard inside to hear above the deafening silence . but out here the chord is always an open one and moving to resolve
Could it mean something that today everyone was singing? the kid the chef the drunk man on the corner hands raised waiting to be raptured for an hour The chef had the words but not the tune arriving at work just as I was leaving the drunk had the voice but distance muffled his meaning the kid went I need you I need you more than anyone darling before rote memory gave out and red-faced […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 