re-reading my thesis
October 29, 2013, 8:52 pm
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“A sentimentalist is simply one who desires to have the luxury of an emotion without paying for it.” -Oscar Wilde



Vondervotteimittiss -Geoffrey Nutter
October 28, 2013, 9:42 pm
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Bram Stoker dined on crab once, late at night,
and so he dreamed. Of what? The plant that needs
no sunlight, needs no stem, whose leaves are white,
its petals opening in blue transparency.
He, naked, garbed himself in milk-white orchids,
and rolled in the troubled oriental bed,
out of earshot of his spouse’s scoldings,
her curtain lectures and her closet dramas.
Here, Mr. Pym, is the twister made of flame,
the one you loved, the fanged machines
that grind the balance of perpetual motion.
Did you turn the hand-crank, the crank
of fanged flowers, the head-crank, opiate,
amphibious mystery plays that end in thieves
coming down from the cross? What you altered
in the night remains the same in daytime,
and day to day the changes leave
a kind of ghost like gas of gutta-percha.
Look, I have left the Dutch town of Vondervotteimittiss,  
whose gothic structures antedate the mandrake.
I return to the ruined city of my youth
where I might ride a manipede along the green-path.
I might see the radiant furnaces, the yachts
that appeal to your sense of indignation,
the slanted greenway to your sense of loss.
You have said a word that cuts like a radical toy,  
something topical, how one who passed
in yellow glasses waved hello. I think
I know what I’m saying. We will all
come together though not, it seems, in the way
that we once hoped. Shall I, a man
half metal, a man of metal, a half man,
a firebug and mountebank, a fire-eater
and a salamander crush the wild berries
to my lips, lie sleeping there amidst
revolving marvels? We were withholding
the boxes of our native earth from one another,
while time, the Great Determiner, its aviary clocks,
the Great Delimiter, the Man of Sure Ruin,
decided great decisions for us, or ones
that at the time seemed so. And you
were a word-search, in a role-playing game
in which you played the role of words.


Rainer Maria Rilke
October 23, 2013, 5:43 pm
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“The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.” 

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Everybody Who is Dead -FRANK STANFORD
October 22, 2013, 6:10 pm
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When a man knows another man
Is looking for him
He doesn’t hide.

He doesn’t wait
To spend another night
With his wife
Or put his children to sleep.

He puts on a clean shirt and a dark suit
And goes to the barber shop
To let another man shave him.

He shuts his eyes
Remembers himself as a boy
Lying naked on a rock by the water.

Then he asks for the special lotion.
The old men line up by the chair
And the barber pours a little
In each of their hands.



don’t be scared
October 20, 2013, 6:48 pm
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do you want me to say it first?

i love you, too.



To F. Scott Fitzgerald, July 1, 1925 (from Hemingway)
October 16, 2013, 8:01 pm
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“I wonder what your idea of heaven would be—A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists, all powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death. And hell would probably [be] an ugly vacuum full of poor polygamists unable to obtain booze or with chronic stomach disorders that they called secret sorrows.

To me heaven would be a big bull ring with me holding two barrera seats and a trout stream outside that no one else was allowed to fish in and two lovely houses in the town; one where I would have my wife and children and be monogamous and love them truly and well and the other where I would have my nine beautiful mistresses on 9 different floors and one house . . . “



Lips -Eugene Dubnov
October 14, 2013, 8:46 pm
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What is the structure of lips
That take care of sounds,
That can scream loud and long,
That can wait and be silent?
Yesterday I was mastering words
And kissing lips lightly—
Their loving weakness
Now remains on my own
Hardworking lips,
Exacting, as if forever,
My terrible punishment.