...

Not in the habit of remembering dreams but saw you last night. You had glasses on and you were saying something...

...

And you're like the voices
of the earth - the crash
of the bucket in the well,
the song of fire,
the thud of an apple;
gloomy, resigned words
in door after door,
the cry of the  child - 
things that never  pass.
You do not change. You are dark.
You are the closed cellar
with the hard earth floors,
which the child entered
once, his feet bare,
and will always remember.
You are the dark room
one  always remembers,
like the ancient courtyard
where day would break.

SWEET ROUMANIAN TONGUE

Drew down the curse of heaven on her umbrella
furled and smelling of wet cigarettes,
Jo ran off in rain one pitchy night,
one bloody a.m. found her staring, snoring.
“Why do we all stay up so late?” Jo queried.
“Though I don’t stay up so late as my friends.”
She tripped the little bomb of wasps.
They got her.
Tears for Jo, four, each perfect, waspish.
A silver tongue and piss blond hair
decants a funeral oblation for the mouse.
“She was a rare sight, a winning wonder.
Jo cultivates her toothaches elsewhere.”

Margot

Dress me like a clown is a perfunctory tune. It starts off with a cello solo and then progresses into the standard four-piece rhythm da-da da-da drum section. These two elements play off of each other, the singer drones and there is some talk of drinking and usual things... the chorus builds up in the background. The best part is the ending which strips away all the arrangements to a bare acoustic jam.

Eva The Fugitive - pg. 40

Eva repeated dreamily a poem that begins more or less like this:

I see the day
Only through my night
It is a small soft noise
From a land out of sight

I understand once more that a human being consists of an infinite number of reflections. There is in you, Eva, a kind of "small, soft, noise," which guides you, for instance, along a path that at certain hours, and often, as I suppose, leads you only into a labyrinth. Eva passes the better part of the rest of the day in a maze of poetry, which releases me from any need to comment on this fact. In any case, I could not help telling myself that a very shady tree was preventing me from seeing her entry into that death zone. And moreover, in the name of the most beautiful kind of despair I could not reject this thought.

Three shots of Jameson

didn't mess up my system last night. Lindsey and Dana wanted to be at HG. It was quiet on the street and inside at the bar. There was a talk of going to the beach and Israel's unique theological problem of not letting the Sinai become geographically obsolete for say, maritime purposes. Murtaza called from the other side, on his way to work. He thought I was lonely. Dard now works in Islamabad. He didn't know which Waqar was I talking about. I don't think anyone of us who were present on that brightly fucked-up spring day have gone back to say 'Hi' to Waqar. Or perhaps that's not surprising given what stuff (Dain wanted to know the word for stuff in Urdu @ the bar: tough question) happened right in front of us which brought on that morning like a bright, fucked-up, tragic in a big way kind of day. It is a shame.

...

Blue storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July
Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:
Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony
With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.
Shall we not call him Prospero who held
In his enchanted hands the fateful key
Of that tempestuous hour’s mystery,
And with controlling wand our spirits spelled,
With him to wander by a sun-bright shore,
To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly
With disembodied Ariel once more
Above earth’s wrack and ruin? Far and nigh
The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,
And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.

- Emma Lazarus

Dates, numbers, digits...

They keep on going on like the shadow at the window glass keeps moving and the register keeps clanging. There are bits and fragments though that don't go away, no matter how many times the shadow traverses the same tread. No matter, what giant distances the digits separate us in time. There lingers these bits and fragments: clear blue skies and the sudden thunders of early-evenings, smell of burnt leaves and gathering hustle on the street anticipating jameson laced whimsies. The shadow keeps moving, distances too, everything stays the same. Digits order themselves neatly: numbers turn into curses turn into dates that refuse to change.

M. Ferger

I am thinking about you, right at this moment.