Giving to the Devil

I looked around today because someone told me I should (I don’t remember who – maybe no one). Could my eyes be blinded more? The more I saw the less I didn’t.

We could go into a whole mathematical breakdown and calculate how many minutes we have in a day – but I don’t think we really need to. Every smile towards the ground is a sign that we all know already. And not even one to spare…even if we did, we wouldn’t hand it over to the minute thieves. Grind it up, put it into a cup, three quarters full of a what we used to drink when we were young. Only fancier.

You only say: to each his own.

But when you try to see too many things, you end up seeing nothing at all. Once, you sat by the bank and looked out to the wide river. You turned and told me the Seine was not beautiful; you did not like it at all. You told me this, only to find yourself reproached by the blind man on the riverside.

He did not try to tell you that the Seine was beautiful. Instead, he told you that you were wrong to speak at all.

“But if I don’t speak at all, what’s the point of seeing?”

The cold reply in earnest said: “Then be blind with me”

Words You Borrow

One more.

A lamb in a pen in the middle of the day in the middle of the city. Pet it - it won't bite. But I'm back here and nothing is in its right place anymore. It's that same familiar feeling telling me that's it's not alright at all. I don't know - I can't smell the morning here.

Go to bed to wake up. Wouldn't it be nice? Damn straight! But no - to no avail. No. It's not. It's not that I don't try. I try. This place has no streets: can't walk, can't breathe, can't love, can't live.

And, oh boy, play your flute. Forever don't move. Sit in the sun and play all life long. A song of stone silence is more than most words can say.

What did God intend? Everything is one after all - that is what I truly believe. There is neither Greek nor Jew, man or woman. "Blue" can be "green" and "red" can be "black". If that's the case, what's in a word? It's a shame to be restricted by language sometimes. Everyone believes - it's just that most people don't realize it. And is that wrong? No.

It's time to learn more. But please don't confuse: having a stance is not wrong. Tip-toeing is tediuous (the alliterative T!) the end the end the end. There is no objectivity in the world so it's futile to try. It's not wrong not to be - because it's impossible anyways. Even "truth" is man-made. And for your sake, never trust man. I want to know MORE. But where to find?

Where to find? Your years are back there to a time which is not now. No matter what we watched or where we went. So this must be what everyone talks about. That famous thing. No matter how late into the night, you are still as bright as in the day. I walk and walk and walk and never get tired. But when I'm here - where to find? Please tell me now before. Too literal : I stand still and I'm already tired. Please help.

A Letter to Alfred Prufrock

I read your words and scanned them all too much,
Yet still could not put words to words you spoke.
But felt the meaning deep within my blood,
A flowing stream of nothing
But yellow smoke.

You list your life in objects,
Subjects – things concrete
To represent the absolute ethereal.
How else to go about it than how you did? –
How else to say what can’t be said?

If we can’t put our trust in human life,
At least we put our trust in objects base and vile.

Your ocean far, but still
At least respite.
To answer, perhaps, a life to live or kill?
The more you see, the more it darkens light.

I’d rather be, tricked by the Godless love,
Than self-imposed blindness – none to blame.
And wish I did, your questions answers give,
But none sufficed and so in twilight live.

In every morning, just as you talked
Of sunsets and the dooryards –
I waited.
Wait for what? Can you tell me?
Guide me? But all you said was this:
“You wait for nothing.”

And I am drawn back in
My quiet morning.
And continue still to wait for
Nothing.
Content yet not content;
Are you content?
Yes.

Sweet, sweet. I think I’ll take your invitation.
To question, tire, wear down to the bones;
Give up the luckless never-ending found –
And satisfy yourself in being drowned.

Bethesda

Enough. Enough. Too much is enough.

More time than I believe in - more time than enough time combined. Yes - after all this, it's time. What should it be like? Tall tall buildings, walking down streets. Not like this. I'm so tired of this - FUCK this. One more. Only one more. Hold out if you can. If not, too bad.

Cold, by the river. Hudson? Seine? Victoria? Thames? Oh hell, does it matter? I have, right here, a stream that doesn't flow. This becomes nothing more than a map - marked up with all the places I've been, all the places I've wanted to go to. But the most beautiful thing is the block of green that exists in the middle of it all. Somewhere between 72nd and 110th. I walked all that way. I walked all that was in between. I walked all and still that was not enough.

Cold, cold, cold. But that didn't matter. Strange ignorings but that altogether is nothing. Have you ever had your breath completely taken away? Been so in awe that you just had to stop. DEAD. in your tracks? Forgotten things such as time and space? Felt how small you were? It's in the morning. It's true - life has disguised itself as a piece of stone in the middle of somewhere you stumble upon. I would give everything to forget time and space all over again.

More days...all I needed was more days. Arriving. Everything stilled in a frozen state of ice. The ripples of movement that didn't move. Can we even begin to try to describe such a thing? Landing in the place where, inherently in your bones, you know you're supposed to be. Yes, we are that small. Leaving. Miss the rain. Miss the cold. Miss the wake up, walk out, come back home.

$4.95. A meal for the street...though not who we intended it for. A street in front of posters and rows and rows and rows of things we want to pay attention to but which become subsumed under the air around us. "Please help". But disappear. I want to go back and buy a book - a yellowed book...thumbed through, old, tattered, torn. Retorts. So much that there are no more retorts to retort. 6 days familiar -maybe all your life familiar. That's telling - THIS is it.

So, enough. Enough. And tell me this - should we admit to the lie we told? It's a lie...but perhaps the most beautiful lie in our lifetime.

Dear Bethesda: I Love You more than words can say.