Where the Stars Look Down
In the end, Our freewill will always dance To the rhythm of death, But should we be slaves to the final notes Of the orchestra? Or shall we become our own instrument— Time and motion Carving away the shape We wish ourselves to be, The miracle of such a symphony Lying not between sun and moon, But where the stars look down.
“The Laughing Heart” by Charles Bukowski, read by Tom Waits
It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill...– Voltaire
O vixen Whose elegance has no words, How I wish to find the sum of all my parts Which spell your name. You grant me the passion For something called love; A word which fails to include all that is involved.
To Brian Ponte
Ten years ago, A time when we thought ourselves as older Even though we sought our image In the mirrors of others— No matter how unclear. We sit here with bourbon—reminiscing, Laughing over the quirks our friends would exploit, The music we deemed tolerable And the thoughts we put opinions into, Unable to escape the women we dared desire— The risks of an “I love you,” How our...
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have...– T.S. Eliot
Lines taken from poems by Robert Frost, W.H. Auden, Allen Ginsberg, and Kenneth Rexroth. Two roads diverged On Fifty-second Street, And being one traveler, long I stood Uncertain and afraid Looking down one as far as I could, Seeing the best minds of my generation Glimmer behind like slugs in the evening. I took the road less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
hidden in a face
To James Craig Anderson A youth desperate to retell a past hidden in a face whose eyes whose tears whose blood whose pain spoke of everything the youth despised, even in himself.
Here is where I dream of home, surrounded by stars that envy lights and buildings that are closer to heaven than I could ever be. Here is where the child within rides pretend far from cannot, searching for a home that was forgot.
As my thoughts play memory’s sheet music and melancholy wears like sleep, I ask myself, “where do I go when the road ends?”
God doesn’t talk because he’s too busy walking.
Purgatory is not a place you go, but an ideal that is never achieved.
I saw my face in you looking back as I stare at a stranger.