A fear had grown inside of me where once there had been only fascination. There was no knife, no charged wire loop that could remove it.
from old blood.
at a time,
how the world
in us all.
Pain. The word itself doesn’t hurt enough, doesn’t know how to tell us what it stands for.
Like how many times you can bisect a line. They call it heartbreak, but not Matley, Matley learned it was not that clean, nowhere near that quick, he learned it was heartgrating, this forever loss in slow motion, forever loss without diminishment of loss, without recession, without ease, the grating.
If writing poems is a means to overcome displacement, exclusion, even relegation, and if reading poetry accomplishes a similar objective, then the art of poetry becomes a means to share messages from one exiled imagination to another.
Art is not only a form of action, it is a form of social action. For art is a type of communication, and when it enters the environment it produces its effect just as any other form of action does.
I can’t invent. I only manage to emulate my ghosts, write the way they used to speak, not make noise, narrate our phantasmagoria.
I know. It’s strange. You want to think that what someone does with someone else has nothing to do with you. And yet it does. That’s why we have these rules, to protect us from getting hurt.
A day, like a top, can be an everyday object. A day, like a top, can be a time-skewing device. A day can also move downward…
Memories are microscopic. Tiny particles that swarm together and apart. Little people, Edison called them. Entities.
*A short disclaimer: these are listed in no particular order. Inclusion here does not mean the whole book was good (don’t assail me if you read something and it is not your cuppa). Rather, these are a glimpse into the books I’ve read in the part week (or two) that I felt worth the time in some way. Not all books I read are included.