For Whom Shall I Live?

Although I can see him still—
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies—
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped it would be
To write for my own race
And the reality:
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved—
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer—
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelve-month since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream—
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, “Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.”

- William Butler Yeats, "The Fisherman"

Corre!

¿En qué reino, en qué siglo, bajo qué silenciosa
conjunción de los astros, en qué secreto día
que el mármol no ha salvado, surgió la valerosa
y singular idea de inventar la alegría?

Con otoños de oro la inventaron. El vino
fluye rojo a lo largo de las generaciones
como el río del tiempo y en el arduo camino
nos prodiga su música, su fuego y sus leones.

En la noche del júbilo o en la jornada adversa
exalta la alegría o mitiga el espanto
y el ditirambo nuevo que este día le canto

otrora lo cantaron el árabe y el persa.
Vino, enséñame el arte de ver mi propia historia
como si ésta ya fuera ceniza en la memoria.

- Jorge Luis Borges, "Soneto del Vino"

Urban Hodgepodge

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear’s teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

- Federico García Lorca, "City That Does Not Sleep"

The Enigma of Feminine Desire

When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While thou canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that, all around,
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom's bound
We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain
For Nature's sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart, how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But, thou art ever there, to bring
The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o'er the blighted spring,
And call a lovelier Life from Death,
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

- Emily Bronte, "To Imagination"

A Memory of the Future

Altered Perceptions

She was part of that group, The Underclass
if you look up the definition on Google.

Divorced with a six year old rug rat, unemployed
drank a little more then she needed to.

As was he. With his small minimum-wage paycheck,
showing twelve hours of overtime they jammed down
his throat each week, in the deduction column.
Court ordered child support, and a car payment for a car
he had already cracked up, junked, but still owed
sixteen months of payments on.

And they left the bar together the perfect pair
sixteen dollars between them.

Not Romeo and Juliet, not a love story by no means.
Just two people needing to be touched and lied to.

- by fanniesson

Haster

Very Tool like

Anti-Social Government Regulated and Monitored Networks

The Fighting of Monsters

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.”

- Nietzsche, "Beyond Good and Evil", Aphorism 146 (1886).

Just Another Roy's Boy....but Which?

Quietly soothing memories of Roy Rogers,
cantering down trails on his way out of town,
until we all meet again one day.
Existing in a western of the past, enclosed in my mind,
forever treasured in time.

RoseAnn V. Shawiak, "Roy Rogers"

---

Rose of Sharon
Work something
Stop this spell
And help break this spell

Move it, move it
Try
When it’s gone you can come to me
It got stored through infinity

It’s too late
We shred
Maybe one day it will

Try not to care
What one seems to tell
If you didn’t choose
What to place of you
Get a new skin
Get a new skin

- Title Fight, "Rose of Sharon" (lyrics)

Post-Apocalyptica

...and the search for a new "meaning" for framing our times

Smile!

Consider; for a smile is the chosen vehicle for all ambiguities, Pierre. When we would deceive, we smile; when we are hatching any nice little artifice, Pierre; only just a little gratifying our own sweet little appetites, Pierre; then watch us, and out comes the odd little smile.

- Herman Melville, "Pierre: Or, The Ambiguities"

Pi's Island

This green island, is like a boat
meandering through the moonlight.

Darling, you are
floating in the ocean of my heart.

Let the melody of my song follow the breeze,
blowing through your curtains.

Let my love go with the flowing water,
serenading you.

The coconut tree's long shadow
cannot hide my gentle love.

The clear bright moonlight
brightens my heart.

This green island night
appears so peaceful.

Darling, why are you
still silent?

Climb

You ask me why I dwell in the green moun­tain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.

- Li Bai, "Green Mountain"