Thursday, July 30, 2015


Becoming the left-handed merchant of dreams
is nothing at all like being starlight : diffused are
the colors of eternal time, the time that never ends.
Is this the manner of the means we keep? If so, I
have already lived a hundred lives and lost a thousand
men. Hannibal, be silent and cross those Alps.
Otherwise all of it goes by the boards. Poe's cottage, as I
visit it, means little to me, Annabelle Lee. Now the dark 
roads cross its edge, and it sits there like some pile in the
middle of a really bad spot -   an intersection of nothing
and all. Whoever it was who sickened there and died
has no power over me. The broken fence, I decry.
This island makes me sick  -  its criss-crossed roads
now covered by creeps and useless people, serfs and killers
too. No pantomime brings forth a juggler for the begging.
Anywhere I go, I want to leave; and taxi-drivers try to
earn their pay by passing by, not stopping, just passing by.
The world is an emollient of turmoil, and so many things
I once knew and cared of have disappeared. 
There is no way to get home at all.

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