Walking up Western Avenue, Dmitri see this: In front of apartment, beneath young elm green, girl in white dress whirling and whirling, someone, her father surely, taking picture. Under shade of elm and building, she appear like flower upside down, gown whiter than lily, head black. Behind her, green window sashes. She whirl and whirl, […]
you moved that dial from comfort to gone, something compelling you drawing you to firing line and desert sands or some great field with thorns and you wrote a letter to that love you left and she cried on its ink, staining an image of loss, nonetheless, she drew on you. you moved in line
Dmitri think much about women in these days. Read what they ask for in personal advertisement. Always, say “like to dance, like long walk, quiet time, Romantic evening by firelight,” etcetera, etcetera. This correspond not with any real woman Dmitri have had mixed pleasure to know. Real woman, once trap has snappèd, have no time
Dmitri Do Not Dance Read More »
“But now her own big brain was urging her to take the polyethylene garment bag from around a red evening dress in her closet there in Guayaquil, and to wrap it around her head, thus depriving her cells of oxygen.” – Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos The truth is, I’ll never have time to completely appreciate one
And still, it moves. The great man knew. He couldn’t let go of the naked truth of its scope, its beauty, but worship science? The powers will not have it; the solution: cognitive dissonance. Galileo. Like him, I know. He knew the center: Solitary and unworshipped by nature– roughed out of bonds by obvious revolutions;
She asked me, “Poppa, What is love?” And I thought and then said “Love is what you need and want it to be.” She thought some and said, “Love is a tree.” And I thought that she was so right. And I think of how my tree looks compared to hers, how they are both