To My Bold Girl

Dream big, my daughter, aim higher.

I won’t always be there when you falter,
but still, go boldly farther and further.
Alone you’ll cross the treacherous waters,
alone you’ll face the crowd’s insolent whispers.

You’ll see that before it gets light it gets darker,
and you’ll find, sometimes, that you’re your own savior.

You’ll see that it’s hard to cap your endurance,
and that your fears don’t sum to their appearance.

Compared to how you first thought it, the world
is both smaller and larger, and there will
always be more to explore and discover.

Love always, and always with you, your father.

Prufrock’s Bad Friend

Let us go then, when the evening is spread against the sky like a circus tent blooming orange trees and maples, under this raging blaze to our first stop where we will feast on these victuals: tender steaks, warm crispy bread, heapings of cheese and salad, a pitcher of absinthe, maybe I’ve ordered too much?  No, our young hunger is monumental.

Stuffed, we’ll watch the smoke from our pipes curl sinuously indigo, singed by the orange lamps that will light one after another, glowing in adagio.  We will wait, counting the bell toll ten times, until the galactic city beneath us starts looking flammable.

Think no longer of the girls speaking pretentiously of Michelangelo, or was it Mario, or Luigi, forget them, because here in our own savage town I bet you’ve never seen the taverns or the speakeasies, set amidst the broken lanes and skewered crossalleys.

Let us go then, because there we will meet your mermaids, lots of them, and you will no longer worry if they come and go or deign to speak to you, for it will be dark and hot and rank with youth, and they will show you matters in which there is no use for so much anxious thinking, much less underwater speaking.

Germination

We need not caverns to grow.

We love the dark loam surrounding us with nowhere else to go,

No more than a whisper or a moment’s glance, no more space than a shifting of an elbow,

Inspires us to crack our seeds and grow.

Caveman Manifesto

Our Recent Past

They were the days when men lived by the laws of simple love and anger, when they lived in simple fear of the divine, when their hearts coursed blood so thick it drowned out the meek wisdom of their minds,

when they charged gladly into catastrophes for a simple song and slender line; before reason, and language’s casuistries, when they danced freely in the tundra and washed their hair with tar, felling mighty oaks and seeding fields with single phallic strokes!

They grabbed lions by their balls and swam freely with the sharks, and grizzlies fled at the whiff of man’s approaching musk, and for months they debated the origin of a single blade of grass – it was the wind, it was God, no, the leaf does not exist – because their minds could not comprehend two different ideas at the same time!

And then they clubbed and killed each other until only one idea existed.

Then they saw woman, swaying gracefully with floral scent, lithe, a brighter use of space, and they looked into the sky (and eagles fell from it), and there was the world, larger than they had known; there was love and anger, but also death and time, and looking into woman’s eyes, they fathered babes who would live by the laws of simple love and anger, and fear of the divine.

Fare Forward.

Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death” — that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.

Dry Salvages, T.S. Eliot

.

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

Aeschylus

I Have This Tattooed In My Heart.

Laugh out the meager penance of their days
Who dare not share with us the breath released,
The substance drilled and spent beyond repair
For golden, or the shadow of gold hair.

Distinctly praise the years, whose volatile
Blamed bleeding hands extend and thresh the height
The imagination spans beyond despair,
Outpacing bargain, vocable and prayer.

For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen, Hart Crane

Sondering

We are creatures of the night.
To us no other time of day
is as bright as the darkness
that sets our heart aflame.

To us the night is a canvas
where the truth lays raw
on a living, breathing plain.

A place of all conviction,
the seed of dreams and life,
before it all gets shattered
by the creeping light of day.

 

Night2

 

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