nice cd cover # 26/27

I Am Robot and Proud - Uphill City / Uphill City Remixes & Collaborations

sentences flowing like wine

"Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something--an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever."


- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

the water reflects the water

 

Shelter

From sound to echo
—we sleep. Among
silent mountains, locked
between sides. We crave

only to remain. On
random days we could reflect
angry sunlight away, and
be still. Like words in thoughts,

We could find that we lie,
heaving bodies into mute
ground. For here your head
lies on my chest. Your gaze

will harvest many swallows.
When they fly low, as if
to touch my belly, and they
predict summer in a way I

could never promise.

nice cd cover # 25

The Verve - Forth

The albatross sailing on wind

 

The albatross sailing on wind

does it think to feel

the weight below, the endless space

it hides under the span of

its wings?

Or does it embrace

the empty only because

it looks ahead, sailing

on wind, open-armed,

untiring?

Gliding canopy of feather

ruffling starless ocean eyes,

hanging on, turning

Into the silence deafened

by wind, by wind, by wind.

at home in the field

Stranded on a horizon
He is the field. Without
ever asking, no longer
hoping to achieve.

What was once careful
is now only expanse;
what moved, still.
Stranded, as a horizon.

He will become nothing
that the field is not.
As if it was never meant
to end:

All demarcations
are the sum of his doubts.

song of the day (once more)

Nick Cave and Warren Ellis - Falling

(the piano darts, like a horse's soft hoofclaps on dewy grass. like early dawn still hanging among horizons. obscured by mist.

once more a sense of purpose. movement on the grass. to go forward.

the air feels cold, moist.

when the violin sets in. a stringing wind that cuts through clothes and bones. it's not there to unsettle, it's not there to support. it's only there, never to mourn.

and the falling, not of the day, or the moment, but the music, the hours. the lines all downward, crisscrossing, intersecting, all toward the grass, down like lost leaves.

never the rhythm is abandoned, never the movement stopped. the hoofclaps resume. the grass allows.

what is that purpose, so early in the morning.)

it seems night

"Dull clouds have covered the sky. Where three roads meet and before a swampy beach a big dog is recumbent. From time to time he lifts his muzzle in the air and utters a prolonged sorrowful howl. People stop to look at him and pass on; some remain, arrested, it may be, by that lamentation in which they seem to hear the utterance of their own sorrow that had once its voice but is now voiceless, a servant of laborious days. Rain begins to fall."


- James Joyce, "Epiphanies"

learning to fly (lesson seven)

take it as it comes. otherwise it wouldn't come.

Night Is

night is
most private of
private kingdoms

night is
no voice no land
no voice no land
no words and not
no words and
not meaningless

night is
when all other
kingdoms gone
and me
such is

such is

night is
all is
night is
me is
night