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Returning.



 

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It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.

Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.

That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books —

Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.

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there’s a light in the darkness

it doesn’t seem far

//

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a world full of successful people’s sons
on bicycles
on the Hollywood Riviera
at 3:11 P.M.
on a Tuesday afternoon…

this is what some of the armies died to save
this is what many of the ladies desire;
these stuffed fractions of beings
pedaling along
or stopping to chat while
still seated upon their mounts
gentle breezes sifting across
their undisturbed faces…

I understand very little of this
except maybe the armies killed the wrong people
but they usually do:
they always think the enemy is
those they are directed against
instead of those who
direct them:
the fathers of the
darlings.

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prefiguring the rise of the noise

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Tinariwen /// Chabiba

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if we wake up tomorrow
we will know we are not dead.

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The sounds of traffic   
die over the back lawn   
to occur again in the low   
distance.

The voices, risen, of
the neighborhood cannot   
maintain that pitch   
and fail briefly, start   
up again.

Similarly my breathing rises   
and falls while I look out   
the window of apartment   
number three in this slum,   
hoping for rage, or sorrow.

They don’t come to me   
anymore. How can I lament   
anything? It is all
so proper, so much
as it should be, now


the nearing cumulus   
clouds, ominous,   
shift, they are like the
curtains, billowy,   
veering at the apex
of their intrusion on the room.
If I am alive now,   
it is only

to be in all this
making all possible.   
I am glad to be
finally a part
of such machinery. I was   
after all not so fond
of living, and there comes
into me, when I see   
how little I liked
being a man, a great joy.

Look out our astounding
clear windows before evening.   
It is almost as if
the world were blue
with some lubricant,
it shines so.

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petermloftus:

(Source: denotata)

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There is nothing beautiful about my poetry

It’s like highway robbery, oppression, TB blood cough

There is nothing noble about my poetry

It’s like death, perspiration, and rifle butts

My poetry is made up of horrible images

Like the Party, the Youth Union, our leaders, the Central Committee

My poetry is somewhat weak in imagination

Being true like jail, hunger, suffering

My poetry is simply for common folks

To read and see through the red demons’ black hearts.

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I’m going to die of loneliness.

I know.

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escape

the red

red world

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