Collecting bottles, tossing leftovers, taking out the garbage
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Where will our boredom be when the bulls mate.
I greet the illusion of my existence with great joy, he went on to say. Later he was found alive.
I have seen them hanging from cliffs, whispering into the ears of spiders, but they are gentle folk, and can be tamed.
Hearing you talk in Danish as you passed me on the street today, I saw a wooden table on which there was a cut of cheese, some rye bread, and a stein of beer. Nearby was the ocean, and I could smell the sea breeze across the way through an open window.
Let me prepare myself for the long and deep penumbral sigh: oblivion is stone-cold, a gambler with a glint in his eye.
When I was seventeen, I would see distant roads in the sound of passing trains: late at night I would look up to low-hanging clouds beneath the moon and feel sad at my past; it was a feeling that moved along the land with the train to the city in my dreams, a world at large, some place to be had just by reaching.
When I was seventeen I was a fool; I did not know what I was reaching for was then.
There is so much that is mysterious: fish and gold that fall from clouds, fantasy and ghosts that rim our nights, days that seem to flow from the sun.
His silence went beyond his age.
Looking into your eyes, I became you, and for five minutes was suspended in your space. Your lips moved, and I felt the breath of some ancient plague beside us.
The hazy valley looked painted by a Hudson River artist of the 19th century. Sunk down in my hammock, I thought I was back for a second, wrestling with space.
The sky grows blue in the imagination; the ocean becomes green. And you there on the shore, watering that sea-lily, I love you.
Deceit is next to kindness, as religion is next to hope. Have a morsel.
I hope this is not the case, that nightmares surface. I have been very happy.
The night was so lucid, the streets so clear, I thought the world was made of porcelain, and the wind would chip it.
To escape the mind! What a wondrous thing! My eyes would turn to silk!
How beautiful today was: I woke up behind yellow shades drawn. Later we rode through tobacco barns, buying candles. I have just eaten some raisins.
I have seen the abyss and it is mind.
“We waited all afternoon for something that never came.” I can see that afternoon, hazy like this one, with the sun half-dark between two clouds. A fly buzzes at the window, lights on a smudge.
They are the sentient, the vivid, the ones who hold their pea-covered knives above their napkined roasts and moan.
My past has fallen from the sky; a redbird sits on a wire against the darkening sunset green: a hammer flies from my head.
The moon rose from the blanket of hills; it was gorgeous and sullen. Clouds came and went, but it had its duty, and our evening was pleasant.
Arising from futility, there is always that giddiness from underneath, down where down is up, and the stars feel good against the eyes.