And I shall let Paul speak for himself. Papers can only tell you so much. And men, oh men. They can’t actually say ‘THIS IS HOW I FEEL!” But writers, but artists are maybe a little bit different. Or at least that is what I tell myself at night when I lie flat and hope someone is out there. Paul is different. And while I like my words, I feel that his do much more than suffice. He wrote life. He wrote his life. So I will not cheapen, I will not borrow, I will not insert myself. But simply pluck and pick and choose and type. As Mr. Blackburn speaks for himself.
Why
Do we never kiss dying people fully
On the mouth?
Cancer grows in a womb where I grew once
and swells as much.
Only she carries death in her now . silent .
will yield
Only to further silence / the skin
Stretches tight across her forehead
As her father’s did, as also mine someday
will.
Monday, Monday : or Sara takes a lover
- What’re you doing this afternoon?
“The library, the – ”
Right, have a good one .
She’s already been to the , library, today.
There are two books on the table
Café at Night
2 men stand over their wine
(white)
the men are white
the wine is white
Two
Women come in, they order hot
Milk . everything is still white
(white)
I pluck
courage up
and order
black
Coffee
(black)
Faces 2
The loneliness
of a single coated figure in the rain,
the well-cut coat, the
face away for then
But there to
Enter the glassed counter and order breakfast?
Impossible.
Done.
The Art
To write poems, say,
is not a personal achievement
that bewilderment
On the way to work
two white butterflies
& clover along the walks
to ask .
to want that much of it .
Anecdote 1: In 8th grade, my literature teacher introduced anecdotes to our class. We had to write one as an assignment. I wrote a long account of when my brother cried on our family’s tour of the YMCA because he didn’t like the pool. My anecdote was long and rather uninteresting, had no point (and was cruel). It was a terrible anecdote. She still gave me and two other students in the class Recess Peanut Butter Cups for our anecdotes. I feel that Ms. McCaroll is to blame for my false confidence in anecdote writing.
Anecdote 2: Ms. McCaroll wore a wig. We didn’t quite know why. She also always had coffee spilled down her shirt (we had her at the end of the day). Ms. McCaroll loved my writing, therefore I loved her and her class. Ms. McCaroll loved quotes. And everyday she had a quote on the board that we had to write in a book, in cursive. I still have that book. The cursive is awful, the quotes are really the only reason I still keep it. Ms. McCaroll passed away a few years ago. She was in her seventies. But the news shocked me. I think it was because of the wig.
Anecdote – Paul: When I was a young boy, I lived with my grandmother. My mom was an alcoholic, but at least seeing her pass out on the floor was better than my grandma’s beatings. I was good. I really was – but I was a boy, and I made mistakes. One day, I was sent out in the snow with some money for grandma’s groceries. I walked back with the change, one nickel, 5 cents, clenched in my glove. I could feel its grooves pressed into my hand. And the wind blew and it slipped right out of my hand into the snow. I felt around, breathing heavily, panicking. And I looked up to the living room window to see my grandma looking out at me. That night was painful. Even more than usual.
Anecdote 3: In high school, I took Spanish. Four years. Even a year of Honors Spanish. Unfortunately, it didn’t stick. One teacher, my first Spanish teacher, Sr. Caruso could have made me fluent on fear alone. He had anger management problems, and every time the class made him upset, he reached his hand to his chest, sifted through his chest hair until he found a smooth rock attached to a necklace string. He rubbed the stone at his desk until his face retained its natural color. Sr. Caruso had a constant fear that his students were cheating. Primarily, typing out all assignments into Google Translate and failing to learn the language. He called me to his desk, held up my essay and pointed out the one single line where I had used an online translator. I can still remember him looking up at me and saying in English (which was rare to hear in his classroom), “Don’t you do this again. This kills the language. Sientate.”
This kills the language.
Diray vos, mot I fon ben mesa
Una benda que li doneiy
Plus que C.S. en gaza(n) heiy
En mon senc e la conjures
Domentre que la calfarie
Aquel non ac boria mas grassa
Que li remas, que non vendas
Tott can’t avia li mangiey
Mays la costa ay tan calfada
And now it all makes sense. We shape the language because things shape us.
Diray you, word and melts well Bureau
A Benda you doneiy
Plus C.S. in Gaza (n) heiy
In the world and spells
Domentre that calfarie
Anyone non ac Boria more fat
He rows that non Vendas
Totti her grandmother can not mangiey
Mays coast ay so calfad
“Consider: the miles, the moans”
My legs are numb. It is a slow burn, like someone has poured acid into my muscles, but its consistency is like maple syrup and it slowly rolls down my quads and dips into the crevices in my calves. “spinning”
“Sirensweetandsilent”
Alarm clock. More like internal alarm clock. No such thing as a sweet siren. Waking up with a kiss – the best alarm clock.
“Relax. Do not think”
I am so glad that after decades people still write this command down. Relax, relax. In five years this 100-point midterm will be a grain of sand on the beach of my memories.
“Home: Closewarmsweetwarmclose: Home”
Mmm. Finally something actually sweet. With its old furniture and bareness, there are magazines and clean dishes and the softest blankets in the world. You can never appreciate sleep unless you are really really really really tired.
“Forty days and forty nights”
Changing the calendar. My favorite monthly chore. Pink flowers for February. Who knows what is in 40 days? Who knows what will happen in 40 nights? Right?
“Undoubtedly, moreover, one’s life is calling, if taken seriously, is found to color and give character to one’s personality and life. This would seem to be unavoidable, and doubtless holds true in our case. Fundamentally, however, we are naturally” prone to messing up. Like spilling water on the floor (well, its just water). Like dropping peanut-butter waffles face down (definitely harder to deal with then water.) No use crying over spilt water. I mean, don’t cry over spilt milk. I don’t have milk to spill, maybe that’s why I’ll cry. **
**“In a word, I feel that my life has been” happy. “…and is pretty definitely” staying happy. During tutoring, a student was frustrated. He is smart and a smartass too. And he said that my smile was annoying him. He said that I shouldn’t be happy all the time. I told him to trust me, that I was not all the time, in fact I was having a terrible day. He let his mouth run saying to just stop being happy and I giggled because for that one moment, I felt like I was with my baby brother back when he was a smartass too. I pulled him aside after class and said I smile because I am happy to be here to help, and I could stop coming. He looked upset and after scanning the room for other students whispered that he liked when I helped with math. He said he doesn’t see smiles a lot. His sister is in the hospital.
“…So when life gets too serious, they are able to stand back and sort of laugh at themselves.” The newspaper had a picture of white fire-extinguisher foam all over the road that I bike on, and all around the shuttle I ride on. I put the newspaper down and looked back at the bus to make sure something wasn’t burning. It wasn’t – I’m over-cautious. The bus stopped and the driver said there was a problem and that we should get off and wait. I didn’t want to wait, and I was going to be late. So, I started to walk an almost extra mile. About two minutes later, the bus drives right by me – passengers and all. I laughed. At least it was a beautiful day.
Oh wow now paul, this city is so tall, that
Not to know it
Not to live in it
Not to love it
Is foreign to my soul, your soul, too, I hope. I like it here, it makes me like things I never liked before. I’m taking off & flying in circles of experience that are really beautiful, examples are: THE DANCING
I now make
Out of old soy
Barrels, want 1?
I have cities &
Must go over it with you.
Hey. Hey. I wonder if this will work on the back. LITERATURE
Really blow my mind on two good courses with this woman
It makes bed going to fun
Clean sheets, flowers, bodies
And all that
Together spell
More than just a Saturday –
Night climax.
The Fly/La Mosca
Question 1: WHAT SOUNDS BEST? Choose the best answer. Circle the letter corresponding to the answer. Only one answer per question.
1 - Te tendre que matar de Nuevo
2 - I’ll have to kill you again
3 - You’ll have to kill again
Question 2: WHAT IS BEST? Choose the best answer. Circle the number corresponding to the answer. Only one answer per question.
1 - Yo, con min unica vida
2 - I, with my only life
3 - I, with my single life
Question 3: WHICH IS RIGHT? Choose the best answer. There may be more than one answer for this question, but you should still choose the best. What type of drink will you have when translating?
1– Kahve
2 – coffi
Isn’t so much of what we do a multiple choice test? Wait, scratch that. Isn’t so much of writing a multiple choice test? When the right word is just on the tip of the tongue. The right answer, the right word, it’s there. You know it. You’ve used it before. But the brain simply cannot recall it, it cannot rake through the copious layers to find that ‘best’ answer, the ‘best’ word.
Crinkled job applications – an entire folder of them. All the facts are there. And they are all defined. But is my mind the only one that twitches at the site of ‘poet’ as an occupation.
Name: given on birth certificate.
Age: calculated from birth certificate.
Address: can be looked up if not known from repetition
Last Employer: Fact
Present Occupation: Poet.
Poet. Guidelines blurred, no hour requirement. Pay sporadically.
But work isn’t work if you love it.
Unemployed. Definition. Without a paid job but available to work.
New York State Unemployment Insurance Information:
No longer reporting
Do not have sufficient information
To determine whether claim
Is valid.
OCTOBER 1952
Resume:
Present Occupation:
Poet, translator, freelance editor.
OCTOBER 1952
Well, that doesn’t quite match up. Two documents. Same date. Does he think like all the rest art-less souls?
My name is Paul. I write. I put words together that sound beautiful. I give beautiful words, beautiful meanings. It is a job. Not an easy one either.
I write letters back and forth, I force my brain to think in many languages and work in many languages.
Isn’t it great that LENGUA means language and tongue!
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
Está en la punta de la lengua
My language is my native tongue.
lengua es mi lengua maternal.
This is work New York. I am not unemployed by my standards. Or by the artistic world. Lengua.
Answer key –
Questions 1 and 2 – same words, different translation sites.
Question 3 – Both coffee, of course.
The Infield Hit: No Excuse to Go Home by Paul
‘You said it would be more complicated”
Well, it is complicated. Isn’t everything complicated now? For all the romantic-comedy’s that I swear not to watch, then end up renting on a Friday night by myself, I would think this would be simple. It’s the way that he looks at her the minute she enters the room, or the silly first interaction where he usually ends up grabbing her hand by ‘accident.’ It’s gorgeous and pathetically desirable. It is not complicated.
Complicated is seeing a friend as something more. Complicated is being on the other end of that and knowing. And when he accidently grabs your hand, it’s complicated. And when you try so hard to want his lips on yours, just because everything else is perfect except the attraction, it’s complicated. And when you lay in bed, looking at the blank ceiling wanting someone to hold, but they aren’t there, and you can’t even picture their face. Is that complicated, or is that sad?
Complicated. Hospital beds lined up in the cancer ward. If there was hell on earth, this would be it. The smell, the uncanny silence, the feeling of a life, many lives slipping away. And he’s in a bed, cold and too young. Not even many wrinkles. Dying. Leaving loves. You said it would be more complicated. But it isn’t. The last breath exits and he sleeps. No complication.
Crank it up for all of us, but let me Heaven go by Mr. Paul
“one side to other of that world we so rarely breathe in”
Just take a chill pill.
A breath. Thh.
Let the ‘thhh’ slip out as your top teeth lightly sit on the tongue.
Add an e. Breathe.
Let the ‘eeee’ ooze out, no teeth touch the tongue. And let your mouth kind of hang open, so that if someone across the room saw you breeeeeeathing, they wouldn’t even know a sound was coming out.
There are so many places of breath. Great places of breath. Concentrated or controlled or short or heavy.
Controlled breath in a yoga studio. In and out, out and in. The air is hot, and sometimes my nose stings from the dryness. But the breath is there, you can almost see it.
In the mornings, the early mornings, where winter actually feels like winter, and the breath really is there. Like breathing mini clouds, and I wish I could just catch it in a jar.
And forced breath at the doctors. She places the cold, circular metal on my bare skin, a bit lower than my shoulder runs places it on parts of my back. And the breath is there, she can hear it and I can feel it. And pushing out the air makes me feel like I could hyperventilate. Deep breath. We don’t really breath deep, do we? Because when we do, and when breath forces itself deeper, it’s uncomfortable, it’s a separate world we rarely breath in.
And the worst breath of all. The breath we don’t want. The breath Paul didn’t really want. The creeping and crawling of cancer up and down his esophagus. Grazing each breath in and each breath out. “I hope I die soon.”
Outside by Mr. B
“We know things but explain our motives like textbooks”
Fermentation is a general term for the anaerobic degradation of glucose or other organic nutrients to obtain energy, conserved as ATP.
Hey! How was ur day tday?
The reason why I am texting you, is actually because I like you. I am hoping you aren’t texting back because you maybe keep forgetting to look at your phone.
Internally, there is a blood-brain barrier that prevents some toxins and poisonous substances from transmission into brain tissue via the blood vessels.
Missed Calls: 0
The reason why he didn’t call back is actually because he doesn’t like you. Can you figure that out? Do you know, but maybe just don’t want to admit that to yourself?
At the same time, it is important to note that the words, morphemes, syntactic unites, and sound patters in each of these examples have been chose by the poet in question.
We do know a lot, and we say very little. Well, we actually say a lot, but what we are actually saying is a little.
I have never heard what a cancer ward sounds like. Maybe one day I will be forced to. But when I imagine it, it is quiet. Maybe sometimes we know things, but we can say it without talking. Maybe sometimes the only way is to not say it with words, but with just a look in our eyes.
And maybe, for a select few talented souls, we can write it. Lucky you, Paul.
What if 70 years from now, someone has to look at this very paper, and that very scribble above this text? And what if they must sit in a special temperature controlled room, using only pencil and approved binder paper to jot down notes? What if they read into it? Here’s a clue – it’s a happy scribble. If you think those exist. Future books, future poems, future essays. OK. Read into those all you want. Read your heart out. But isn’t my scribble just a scribble? Just a scribble. Just as much or as little as Paul Blackman’s scribble.
Welcome to NYU.
Welcome to a place full of old buildings, full of intelligent people.
Welcome to the place that thousands, millions, maybe billions of people have treaded across.
Welcome to a place where paper with words, original words, even original scribbles breed. They multiply. Welcome.
Welcome to NYU, Paul.
It was 1945, October. He was leaving soon and it was dark.
World War II, there is your context. It was winding down by 1945, the world powers were exhausted, but men were still around. Soldiers still present. Paul was going.
And so through his young nineteen-year-old eyes, the world was going dark in a place where no one sleeps and lights are always on.
Scribbles or words:
And with that, he left. He left for the war that was dwindling down, a war that had left the world down and dark and beat.
The pages are browning and thin. Is that how they looked when he bought them? Each page was three-hole-punched and whatever held it together has been discarded. Paul was picky. Even his first try at a poem in October 1945, he was picky. Lots of crossed out words, but enough left as written to show that he knew he had skill. There was much that could be left as is.
***
Paul sat with his back against an Oak tree. It was old and stable and pressed into the areas of tension in his lower back. A soft patch of grass cushioned his bottom as he stared blankly across the field. It was getting darker, but he could still write.
He picked up the fresh sheets of paper and began to write.
“Journal” Sept 45-… Who knows what that end date will be?
And frustrated by the fact that he had no access to a typewriter, he scribbled.
And frustrated by the fact that he was leaving a place he was still getting used to, he scribbled some more.
And really frustrated by the fact that he was off to a war that was over, he scribbled hard, pressing his pencil into the paper so that the sharpened tip broke off, and that the pressure made the lead look as black as pen.
And as he sat allowing the coolness of the evening sweep over his body, he looked back out across the field and saw a forest. A dark, eerie forest. One that he didn’t think he had seen before. And Paul listened as the sound of students bustling by, was tuned out and he could hear just one thing.
The sound of loneliness. And abruptly the rain poured down. Or rather, it drilled down.
Scribble.
November 24th, 1926.
Search P for Paul
Find Paris.
Heavy doors that scoot sluggishly across the polished floor. The floor waxed, white marble. Conservative heels click-clack scuffing the night cleaner’s masterpiece. Tips of black robes float near ankles softly, creasing in all the right places, draping sophisticatedly. The Palace of Justice in P for Paris, P for Paul.
And she walks out, her heels a bit sexier than the rest. Her robe a little higher than the ankle. Her clothes professional and bright red, crimson maybe. Bright to catch attention. Bright to hide the blood. As her feet patter among all the others, the gun comes out is pressed to the organ that beats rapidly and a shot rings out in the halls. The click-clacks stop, the robes dance slightly, and she says, “ I want to die. I am madly in love with a colleague of mine in the Palace of Justice, but he doesn’t return my love.” And the stoppage of nervous breath in every male doesn’t grace the newspaper page. Nor does the color of her shirt. Or any color at all.
Page 4.
202 words.
October 5th, 1990
Search S for Sara
Find San Juan Capistrano.
The putrid smell seeps through the floorboards. His clothes smell like it, his food tastes like it. It reeks first thing in the morning all the way till the sun sets, and until the last light goes off. The police won’t deal with it. Animal Control won’t deal with it. And so he is forced to share his land with another family. Once that returns every night and that multiplies every spring. The man and his skunks.
Page 3.
673 words.
What makes the page? The first page. The page that touches the cool pavement on New York City’s doorstep. Each word worth at least twenty more. Each byline responsible for a paycheck.
The importance of a name.
And the way the ink smells and the paper feels.
And the way the hospital smells and the baby sleeps.
The importance of a name.
The bracelet on the wrist. Don’t they all look the same? Like little dolls sleeping for the first time in a room with space. And the baby’s breath. Milky and sweet. They named the flower well. Small and milky and delicate. 2 words. Baby’s breath. A birthday conjures up images of balloons and the sweet taste of cake and the musty smell of candle smoke as each flame disappears. But it is actually the celebration of a birth. Of a bloody, painful, exhausting experience that is only worth it because the prize for the winner is a baby.
A world of Black and White. Just two colors that fill pages and pages. Even sixty something years between, the text is still the same. Word just jumbled, fonts more modern.
Each word is thrown on the same playing field. Goal of the game: score as many readers as possible.
202 for a suicide. 673 for a skunk.
Is space really an advantage – or is it the place? 100 words on Page 1, or 600 words on pages 5?
Less space to fill, perhaps. Expand it out, have to fill the pages for the deadline.
The words are the same. Don’t forget it.
Paul’s paper says Uncle Sam. A cartoon. Unc is keeled over a dock railing looking ill and beat-up. A British ship sails away.
The Brits are going!
We are going to the Brits.
S’ paper says troops out of Europe. Reducing number praying for safety. Increasing number thanking there is a U.S. roof over their head.
In their head.
Paul’s paper says Poison Gas ban being voted on by the senate. Amount of brain damage increasing – for what? Senate will vote next week. December 1926 - Senate will vote.
House will vote.
S’ paper says House will vote on endowment money for local artists. Odds aren’t favorable. House will vote end of this week. October 1990 – House will vote.
Paul meet S. We’re in it for the long haul.
31 degrees of freezin’&cold along a freeway trying to hitch me a ride;
free by all means to walk until I hitch that ride.
Just an hour ago
I told the liquor-deli I’d like 3 sandwiches:
-A black forest ham
-A turkey breast
-A BLT
I’m going to a place pronounced /ˈwɒʃɪŋtən ˌdiːˈsiː/
Washington D.C.
I’m off to have dinner with a friend, who has “gone crackers” according to the words of a lawyer that convinced a jury and so the judge used his gavel and with a bang deemed my friend to have “gone crackers” and it’s all on a paper, if you don’t believe… it’s on a paper and stamped by a government seal
PaulyB.: “It’s quite a story Gloria”
Gloria.P.: “I’m sure it is, I’m sure it is Pauly”
I wasn’t going to stop at this deli, but I wanted to tell Gloria not to expect me for a few days.
PaulyB.:“Pack’em tight Gloria! I’m heading to D.C. and I need me a lunch and a dinner!”
-A black forest ham
-A turkey breast
-A BLT
GloriaP.: “But that’s three meals and ye only needs twos”
(why she added a ye and an extra s to her speech I still can’t figure, that’s just the way some of em deli-liquor people are)
PaulyB.: “One’s dinner for Ezra Pound”
Wind: N at 8 mph
Humidity: 91%
I’m off to have dinner with a friend, which means I’ll cross the Potomac River.
I can’t cross a river, a whole nationally acclaimed river without a BLT for my friend.
68.3 square miles
6.9 square miles of water
but I kind of know how to find my friend
The number of murders peaked in 1991 at 479, but the level of violence declined drastically in the 1990s. By 2009, the annual murder count in the city had declined to 143, the lowest number since 1966. In total, violent crime declined nearly 47% between 1995 and 2007. Property crime, including thefts and robberies, declined by roughly 48% during the same period. But I’m sure my friend would rather talk about a simile or alteration he re-worked while pissing in a hospitalized public toilet
Article One, Section Eight of the United States Constitution grants the U.S. Congress ultimate authority over Washington, D.C. And that authority owns St. Elizabeth’s, so does Article One, Section Eight grant ownership of Ezra Pound to We the People?
Gloria, I got here just fine so you know.
I’m in the Government Hospital for the Insane.
Pleased to meet you.
St. Elizabeth’s patients are civilly committed
Hi, I’m Paul.
the remaining patients are forensic patients
Hi, do you know where I can find an ‘Ezra Pound’?
adjudicated to be criminally insane (not guilty by reason of insanity)
or
incompetent to stand trial
Oh, my man, there you are 38 degrees 53’ North 77 degrees 02’ West!
I bought you a BLT! Gloria makes em like no other Spanish woman can.
I wrote you about her sandwiches
1100
She fries the Bacon just right
Alabama Avenue
The tomato is juicy
Southeast,
And the lettuce is green
Like the lawn of that big white house
Washington, DC
Tell me, what it’s like here
(202)
where they have you sleeping?
562-
are you really insane Ezra?
4000
thousands of patients are believed to be buried in unmarked graves across the campus, but, again, records for the individuals buried in the graves have been lost. The incinerator on site also brings up a few questions as to what may have happened to the bodies.
Over 1,400 brains preserved in formaldehyde, 5,000 photographs of brains, and 100,000 slides of brain tissue was maintained by the hospital until it was transferred to a museum in 1986.
I drew a sketch of your brain Ezra.
Take a look. I had some spare time on the ride over here. Looks just like you huh?
The Department of Homeland Security announced in March 2007 plans to relocate its headquarters, along with most of its Washington, D.C.-area facilities, to the abandoned federally-owned western campus of St. Elizabeths, beginning in 2010. No worries Homeland Security will protect your spirit from terrorists.
Take care okay!
I’ll see you next month!
I’ll bring you a Black Forest ham next time… Boy you’re gonna love it. Gloria makes that just grand. That Spanish woman sure does know how to slice that meat thin.
What if 70 years from now, someone has to look at this very paper, and that very scribble above this text? And what if they must sit in a special temperature controlled room, using only pencil and specific paper to jot down notes? What if they read into it? Here’s a clue – it’s a happy scribble. If you think those exist. Future books, future poems, future essays. OK. Read into those all you want. Read your heart out. But isn’t my scribble just a scribble? Just a scribble. Just as much or as little as Paul Blackman’s scribble.
Welcome to NYU.
Welcome to a place full of old buildings, full of intelligent people.
Welcome to the place that thousands, millions, maybe billions of people have treaded across.
Welcome to a place where paper with words, original words, even original scribbles breed. They multiply. Welcome.
Welcome to NYU, Paul.
It was 1945, October. He was leaving soon and it was dark.
World War II, there is your context. It was winding down by 1945, the world powers were exhausted, but men were still around. Soldiers still present. Paul was going.
And so through his young nineteen-year-old eyes, the world was going dark in a place where no one sleeps and lights are always on.
Scribbles or words:
Naked-dripping woods
Winter Beak:
Keeps soul from showing
“Lonely sound,” he says.
In darkness à Under Dark
Black à Sudden
The Rain hurts spurts drills
(good choice) -sm
A love rising to (UG!)
And with that, he left. He left for the war that was dwindling down, a war that had left the world down and dark and beat.
The pages are browning and thin. How they looked when he bought them? Each page was three-hole-punched and whatever held it together has been discarded. Paul was picky. Even his first try at a poem in October 1945, he was picky. Lots of crossed out words, but enough left as written to show that he knew he had skill. There was much that could be left as is.
***
Paul sat with his back against an Oak tree. It was old and stable and pressed into the areas of tension in his lower back. A soft patch of grass cushioned his bottom as he stared blankly across the field. It was getting darker, but he could still write.
He picked up the fresh sheets of paper and began to write.
“Journal” Sept 45-… Who knows what that end date will be?
And frustrated by the fact that he had no access to a typewriter, he scribbled.
And frustrated by the fact that he was leaving a place he was still getting used to, he scribbled some more.
And really frustrated by the fact that he was off to a war that was over, he scribbled hard, pressing his pencil into the paper so that the sharpened tip broke off, and that the pressure made the lead look as black as pen.
And as he sat allowing the coolness of the evening sweep over his body, he looked back out across the field and saw a forest. A dark, eerie forest. One that he didn’t think he had seen before. And Paul listened as the sound of students bustling by, was tuned out and he could hear just one thing.
The sound of loneliness. And abruptly the rain poured down. Or rather, it drilled down.
Scribble.
Black birds burning at St Paul’s Cathedral
It was a 24 November 1926 dream.
Bella Noche symphony piece playing on M Street waking up Regina’s Dinner
It was a 01 November 1989 dream.
Wow!
have we been alive this long?
Think of what we’ve gone truuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu:
150 firefighters
@
the pre-dawn sky in downtown
phew phew phew I cannot breath in the transition from womb to Earth
Nobody is going in until-
…
Contained within three hourS
Elm Street 1: 5 : 55 AM
weighing the pros and cons of running
run
run
run
stop the weight is pulling you down
don’t think about it, don’t think about it
but think about this:
the root of extreme toxicity
is
injected into the soil before or during planting
the root of extreme sainthood
is
injected into the soil before or during planting
you can’t abort mission, it’s too late
you can’t abort mission, we’re loosing air pressure
we’re loosing air pressure
Maybe it’s aborting me.
I know this thing is not going to come
take a deep breath
Where do you hurt?
I hurt all over
And the surgical gloves go in
And the surgical gloves say: “We’re going to get you out of here”
To the slug stuck in the 18-hole of the an 18-hole course
And the surgical gloves are ready to deliver
but wait have you heard
JFK Jr. failed his first attempt at the bar exam
Hands are you still paying attention? Are you ready to deliver?
And the change springs less from an altered view
There is little verbal communication
BUT the spirit of a language is in the air and on the walls—the universal language of art.
and
“The Ringing Earth,” Bizet’s Symphony in C
plays
Step inside and shapes change.
Now you are in a squared circle.
A series of high, flat walls form right angles, and in four distinct areas
the pressure of the Higher Power begins to be unbearable
In November
The Mother saw Siddhi emerge
from
concrete;
Crying time:
It’s so wonderful to see the final product of all the hard work.
It has descended into the physical today
An oceanic flood of Light rushing
Higher Consciousness descended on earth
There was a deep silence in the atmosphere
the vision of a new architecture
is “still a human being”
Hey partner, what’s your name?
Wow!
have we been alive this long?
Think of what we’ve gone truuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.
