/ 22 years, 6 october 2010 prospect park, brooklyn
31 October 2010
as i lay in gossamer sands i heard
that to feel out the dead you have to melt
in the breeze that unglues body and mind -
just as the threshold of sleep is crossed and day breaks
the familiar gestures the bodies of the lost return
renewed as if born this very day reserved for visitors
i focus on his chest's smooth skin
its amber color that will linger a few hours more lingering
ever since his gaze began to wander without end since i first entered his circle
now, with everything razed to the ground,
in rare moments of wind
we laugh in mid-air, read each other's lips
until we go to pieces against the eaves of a house
and he yells: "it's all burned out inside!"
/ mario, august 15, 1978 by antonio porta
24 October 2010
/ kristian rodriguez, august 2010 syracuse new york
k is a talented musician, poet, excellent actor & wonderful friend
check out some of his music here
and it was never resolved, the hierarchy, the light, secret
data points, windows without curtains.
codes that kiss your symmetry, a monotony of instinct.
understanding how you came to this place
and how you'd leave it.
as a dream you took along whose words were playthings
swept the room in lovely waters.
a personal one whose hesitation was exhausted.
/"letter written on the 27th of october, harvest moon, nearly perfect sky after having rained, the radio left on" from the book dear body: by dan machlin
17 October 2010
this world is in darkness.
how few have eyes to see!
how few the birds
who escape the net and fly to heaven!
swans rise and fly toward the sun.
so do the pure conquer the armies of illusion
and rise and fly.
if you scoff at heaven
and the violate the law
if your words are lies,
where will your mischief end?
the fool laughs at generosity.
the miser cannot enter heaven.
but the master finds joy in giving
and happiness is his reward .
and more -
for greater than all the joys
of heaven and of earth,
greater still than dominion
over all the worlds,
is the joy of reaching the stream.
/ excerpt from 'the world' from the dhammapada
07 October 2010
|What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow|
|Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,||20|
|You cannot say, or guess, for you know only|
|A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,|
|And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,|
|And the dry stone no sound of water. Only|
|There is shadow under this red rock,||25|
|(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),|
|And I will show you something different from either|
|Your shadow at morning striding behind you|
|Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;|
|I will show you fear in a handful of dust.||30|
|Frisch weht der Wind|
|Der Heimat zu.|
|Mein Irisch Kind,|
|Wo weilest du?|
|'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;||35|
|'They called me the hyacinth girl.'|
|—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,|
|Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not|
|Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither|
|Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,||40|
|Looking into the heart of light, the silence.|
|Od' und leer das Meer.|
/ excerpt from 'I. the burial of the dead' from the waste land by ts eliot