Tuesday, April 14, 2009
crushed cigarettes and kitchen matches
Everything old and poor and dusty calls to us.
We stalk the city, hunting the authentic.
It's pouring but we stand bareheaded,
soaking in our leaking raincoat.
We'd rather die than carry an umbrella.
We have no umbrella,
no hat, no gloves, no money for the streetcar.
All we have in our pockets is a dirty handkerchief,
crushed cigarettes and kitchen matches.
"Conscience," Jonathan Galassi
[Chicago Avenue at Winchester Street]
- ► 2011 (107)
- ► 2010 (115)
- gentle rain from heaven
- bathe and paddle about bucolically in a mild puddl...
- indistinguishable from magic
- i like this kind of tension
- a kind of gravity
- flat and coolly distant
- here we go again
- take, for example
- like a perhaps
- wine is how words taste
- the doleful cello
- a crowd of grand and confused images
- there are two silences
- an oblivion of care and a freedom from solicitude
- double yolk
- crushed cigarettes and kitchen matches
- you had
- haunted evenings and dark nights of secret assigna...
- must mean something
- night's friendly takeover
- makes me clumsy
- trop retro
- what they are
- things are going to happen that are going to shift...
- down the streets of the big night world
- no one more ferocious
- ▼ April (30)