Is it then our destiny to eat sharks?
The house is quiet for once, it feels like Sunday felt in my early twenties, before I rebuilt family, and after I had left church.
Often I wake and sit up and look at Chrisoula, trying to align my breath with hers, sometimes moving my fingers in the air above her head, stilling the dreams that haunt her.
Cutting myself cutting back the raspberries, is there any other way.
Something remains ambiguous always, it's like we're kidding ourselves when it comes to truth, morality, liberation, et cetera.
Who is the actor here, where is the stage, will the playwright show herself, who thought charging admission was a good idea.
There are still days when the writing is such that I forget to eat breakfast, end up hungry and emptied out, a thousand miles down a road on which travelers are few and far between.
Schopenhauer's observation that "the older we become, the more does everything pass us by without a trace," may we never forget to be grateful.
Out back by the apple trees, negotiating another term in our beautiful difficult marriage.
On the other hand, this infinite complexity, this lovely opacity.
An hours-long discussion about pancake recipes, the kids indulging me as from time to time they do.
The detective summons the mystery, the mystery makes the detective.
At a late juncture my sexuality becomes less secretive, who did I think I was.
Oh just stop looking for yourself and order a pizza or something.
I want to see your body naked in summer rain.
The shoulder is a pattern, a process unfolding, may we rest on it, may it rest us.
What are ancestors but another word for distance.
Holder of the secret, sharer of the story, receiver of the gift, giver of the love.
Consider the possibility that fragmentation is not a crisis, separation a useful fiction, and God a question we pose in error.
Passing by, getting on, happily and otherwise, the man without shoes singing as he goes, the path beneath him terminating in the dust from whence he came.
Post a Comment