Monday, June 6, 2011
hence the horizon's blade
Darling, you think it’s love, it’s just a midnight journey.
Best are the dales and rivers removed by force,
as from the next compartment throttles “Oh, stop it, Bernie,”
yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours.
Hook to the meat! Brush to the red-brick dentures,
alias cigars, smokeless like a driven nail!
Here the works are fewer than monkey wrenches,
and the phones are whining, dwarfed by to-no-avail.
Bark, then, with joy at Clancy, Fitzgibbon, Miller.
Dogs and block letters care how misfortune spells.
Still, you can tell yourself in the john by the spat-at mirror,
slamming the flush and emerging with clean lapels.
Only the liquid furniture cradles the dwindling figure.
Man shouldn’t grow in size once he’s been portrayed.
Look: what’s been left behind is about as meager
as what remains ahead. Hence the horizon’s blade.
"Seaward," Josep Brodsky.
[Chicago Avenue at Winchester Street]
- comic complication
- an only child above the measured thunder of the ca...
- anybody live here?
- in a good mood
- a handful of dust
- the shunting of trains far away in the freight yar...
- the pub crawl that stops, looks and listens
- ingen blandade allt annat än whisky och öl på tug ...
- we don't get tornados in these parts
- puerco, pollo, queso
- two parallel red lines
- a city filled with streets and sewers
- willingness to be happy
- often silly
- urban falconry
- the new chicago style
- hence the horizon's blade
- his aim is true-ish
- some girls never learn
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