Tide goes out comes back But I am no' thern Sea I am just a stream that flows to the sea Water that came from ice And brought na-rud-red down Carries bodies from the war And careless garlands of the young Murmurs to the sea So much piss and shit Brooks no laughter Brooks that laughed at me
No I am not the emerald Sea Not even the bracken rocks I'm a stream and Streams do not go back
Yanaka, from Dust Paths of Dar Said to have been Rimbaud's lover, writing masi...
Squirrels amongst autumnal Acorns are busy being squirrels Amongst the wetter leaves Oh the dogs are young dogs yapping Down by the levee the market people Market people Their children play down the valley
from "The Sugar Traders" Unknown author, Nantes, France: etched into fragments of a fading facade; trans. Sir William Emerson Bt, 1895
It was when I saw That I stood on the palm Of God's hand That I got to my knees To pray
Only when I saw His other palm Come to swat me Did I know It was time to dance
May Lou Cotton, Boardwalk Ballads of the Bayou, 1929 - 1932 "Why do we always see something as if that's all there is, right up until the moment that we see that it isn't" "Only thing that made me happier than the scent of an orange was the taste of it"
Time is not a linear progression. It's a necessary fiction giving succour of a before or an after; a contract of consensus. Being present, the beingness bubbles and leaps abound. Being present is the awesome phenomenon of letting go of expectation and the silver filagree of common memory. Presence becomes a filament; a breach in the dream. When the red cloud covered my city, each asked silently, "What if the world ended now!" The mother cozied her dying father, the drunk ran home and the baker let the bread burn. Once it had passed, our world had changed forever.