4755. NOODLE SONATA

NOODLE SONATA

I don't feel embarrassed for having responded to this,

so listen up Tinkerbell : here are my shoes, and my

cuff links, and my shirt. This here is my metal comb.

I placed them on the mantle, where you keep that photo

of your Uncle Nestor and those pieces of coal. 

-

The story came down through your ages (in silence,

 in silence, in dread) how they moved the village, and the

two churches as well, each time to coal-seam was moved. 

Each time they exhausted the one seam (the town was

built atop it, as the miners lived and worked there), and

then  -  just as well  -  moved when the new seam was 

opened. The miner's live was an exhausting one.

-

The only thing they never moved, you told me, (in silence,

in silence, in dread; when the lights were out, after we'd

made love) was the cemetery. each time, time after time,

the dead, left behind, a few miles back.

4754. WHO'S IT GONN'A BE?

WHO'S IT GONNA' BE?

Have you carried a treasure in your steeplechase locket,

the one your grandfather gave you? It is dangling somewhere

between your breasts. Oh sacred, amorous one. Oh misshapen

lover of a million things. Here is the hammer with which Thor

conquered his Heaven  -  or whatever He did with however He

did it. It makes little reason now, or sense. By that reasoning

we are only extras anyway. The man who claimed to be God 

has already  given his names to all things. By those standards, 

we are all gone, one by one and one at a time.  It will be, 

it will be, well, who's it gonna' be next?

4753. I USE A LOT OF METAPHORS

I USE A LOT 

OF METAPHORS

My dog is an angel the likes of no other.

I keep only heaven in my otherwise empty

wallet; it grows like moss, all the way to my

heart, which is coated. Outside the destitute 

and the dying, there are no really hard-up people:

except those mentally ill, who convince themselves

they're normal. And everyone else like them is too.

That's where so many prime distinctions come into

play : you are not like me, and I am not you.

'Let us go then, you and I, when the evening

is spread out against the sky.'

4752. I WAS STANDING

I WAS STANDING

Now there's no deciding; now there no

'dang' in my danger. I can walk freely where

only before I walked in fear. I went down to the

river, standing just where the light descended, the

crazy voice twisting and running backwards - 'This

is capitulation : the will is of my making.' I was standing.

-

I remain idle at earthquakes and floods. I have nowhere to

go and nowhere to run : for I am already nothing at all.

Renouncing my life was quite simple. This is satori, the

end of desire. My mind's final wish is to understand zero,

to understand zero here where I'm standing.

4751. NOMENKLATURA

NOMENKLATURA

Are we to fight this fight forever : the cobbler who

leaved his Boston hammer behind, the man who twists

leather into chimes and aprons? She, who bakes at the

oven for others to eat? What goads us on - humanity's only

love is the heart of the fire. The Salem Trials we still rehearse 

is the Generation of Vipers we have become : racing fire down

the highway, filling trucks and cars with death. I answer nothing 

I am ever asked. I avoid speaking directly to those who would talk

to me. My love is the warrior protecting me - some Lancelot or

one or another itinerant jouster fired with righteous rage.

4750. SKILL SETS

SKILL SETS

I've been to Yardville, I've been to

Lawnside. I've caked the icing and

put icing on the cake. Yes, on the

cake. But now I cook, and lightning

is my tacit guide.

-

'Mistakes were made.' Nixon said.

'Arrivederci, Roma,' was someone else :

I can't see and I can't ride, but I am

running out. Put my car on the 

slide and let me exit this hoax.

-

The most lethal thing in the world? 

A pen and pencil set. Teaching is 

found in the very act of knowing.

4749. DURAVILLE

DURAVILLE

'Nothing lasts forever', the eternal

monument states. A paradox itself,

its notion slowly crumbles.

-

Atop the mausoleum, some beautiful

bird alights  -  mocking or shrill, a

taste of sixteen calls, all the sounds of

other birds. A mockingbird steals songs :

a magpie just steals.

-

I have no armor with which to plague

myself. Here before you, I am unbearable

and dead. My language reeks.

I utter no truths.

-

I am a spade in the midst of pickaxes,

a shovel in the midst of hoes, a cleaver

amid pitchforks. I am a spoon, lost

among the knives and forks.

4748. CENTRAL STAR

CENTRAL STAR

She harbors hope. I have her

name. The basket she carries

is filled now with gold.

4747. AL

AL

'I don't know what kind of  show you're

running here, Al, but it seems running off

the tracks. The laugh-track is off-kilter, out

of synch, and loud when it should be stilled.

That amazing grimace you proffer, that skeptical

want of grace and mirth, let me see how to put

it, 'you've run it for all that it's worth.' I want to so

be your partner in something new, wiser and strong  -   

this old, TV sit-com bullshit, it's been going on so long. 

There's nothing left for redemption, and these clowns

in the audience, all of them too, they're just here

for pleasure, from Dubuque, or having escaped their

zoo. I don't want to put them down, but give me a

another take. I don't know what kind of show

you're running here, Al; but, please, let's take a break.

4746. THE BOATMAN ON THE SEA

THE BOATMAN 

ON THE SEA

The boatman on the sea,

the boatman on the sea,

oh let me not be the boatman

on the sea. And let him  -  that

boatman on the sea  -  let him

not be me, that boatman on the 

sea. Let me be me, not the boatman

on the sea, and let him not be me, that

boatman on the sea. The boatman on the 

sea, the boatman on the sea  -  oh let

me not be the boatman on the sea.

4745. IS THIS A BETTER PASSION?

IS THIS A 

BETTER PASSION?

The revolutionary road is snowbound now,

where wounded lancers and those riflemen 

roamed. The war is over now. Should we

put down our arms and go home?

4744. TIRED OF FAKE

TIRED OF FAKE

Filigrees of Montezuma and hallowed halls of

Hell  - everywhere I turn, there's something 

coming back at me. Drop down the Forrestal

mirror; read all you want of Frederick Seidel.

-

Make my home in Andover; keep my cabin in

Bushkill Falls. That's the way I think of it. My

veterinarian lives next door, and my priest,

he packs a pistol down the street.

-

I am the King of Jeremiad; eating the pages of

the Book of Psalms for a bromide; walking the

harbor in search of Sarah O'Keefe or

Millicent Sodar or Marilyn Stein.

-

Let's take this down a notch, OK? Last

Winter was a pedestal compared with what

this one will be : I have what I want for

the asking. She came in on Friday,

and left last week.

4743. OH! OH! BOB SATERLEE

OH! OH! BOB SATERLEE

Great horned owl, living on high, coming out 

at night, making a howl, scaling the scowl with 

the selfsame eyes oh! oh! Bob Saterlee I do

remember thee in 1973. Let's see, Bob Saterlee

how things went with you and me: remember that girl

with the birthday cake; she came through the woods, 

across the dirt road, dressed like a cow-field hooker

in a place where no one even knew what to do. My 

wife, right then, was in the hospital, away, for 10 or 15

days. Well, we showed HER what to do! Cows do moo!

-

Austin Healey 3000, yes, that was it  -  you had a really

nice car. Those freaking kids who wrecked it, trashed it

in my barnyard, remember that? A baseball bat to the grill

and headlights, a knife blade to the canvas top, oh man

that was just the start. You called the State Police to come

and take a report  -  like calling the Fish and Game Commission

for an illegal catch. What a mess all that turned out  -  now, she's

gone, and Mike Meehan, the kid with the knife, he's a retired

Texas State Patrolman himself. Holy gee Bob Saterlee!

-

I can't remember who else you fucked  -  with a couple of kids, 

here and there. They must be old now too. Everything grows 

to die, lives to prosper and then to fade. Oh Bob Saterlee,

what it be? I always thought you had it made.

4742. HIGH-TREES

HIGH-TREES

The land rises up;

the meadow we know

comes to meet us. We notice

the ever-ranging light, and smile.

4741. CHARLTON HESTON WORKED HERE

CHARLTON HESTON 

WORKED HERE

This spot is no kidding. It's got a water supply, two 

ponds, and a barn turned into a workshed area too. 

He liked to work with his hands. People tell me he 

made chariots. People say he carved wooden guns. 

I never realized he was six feet four. Now, just stop 

and think what that would mean in ancient Rome.

Extendo-chariot for sure, needing extra legroom 

and a place for that big frame. I have a legation 

of senators to bring through here soon.

4740. BENEVOLENCE

BENEVOLENCE

I've got benevolence under my fingernails; it makes my

suitcase shine. I'm not the one with the wipers, though it

always seems raining. Look above me, the dormer window

is open  -  something must be coming in. One cat meows.

-

Here in the open country, the land is doubled up : one part

geography, the other part greed. Every corner seems something

different and new. Here's a recent list: my heart is a duplex,

my second level has a nice stairway, my garage has an extra

spot. Bicycles hang from the ceiling. One cat meows.

-

I awoke from a sleep, like a long birth returned, and could

only think of all the things I'd known already : the Aswan High 

Damn and the Suez Canal, Montevideo and Port Au Prince.

I was told I must pay for all damages  -   three chandeliers, a

doorway and an antique cherrywood table. One cat meows.

4739. WILD LOOKING SKY

WILD LOOKING SKY

'Look into my eye, Starbuck, I feel wild myself.'

Now aye landlubbers listen : that old guy amidst the

kids is sitting alone. One large tap of a beer is his.

-

'Like yonder windlass and fate is the hand, mate, and 

all the time that smiling sky and unsounding sea.'

No one listens. 'I came on board thinking to drink;

though this barroom is on land, I myself have been

a'drift, a'sea for years. My lone fate dangles before

me. Well, at least I smell land, even if just me.'

-

'I dreamed last night of a lusty lady in my heart; she took

my soul away and broke me. I awoke whimpering, and

wet with seed. It wouldn't matter, but to me. I am so

sick of unjusified living, so very tired of all. Now

there's a wild looking sky above me. 

It's one I'm sure now I can read.'

4738. NOW IS OUR MOMENTARY DEVISE

NOW IS OUR 

MOMENTARY DEVISE

Tractor man is five thousand years old, marking

stones with runic symbols, leaving paths and miles

of rock-pillars. We know nothing now yet insist 

on calling it Broadway. And the lights go on again.

-

Halter tops and maidens with brains. Short fat guys

with hammers and concrete. The black African selling

shawls and sunglasses where soon Winter will be.

Everything together. This strange Nature bears its

own potpourri  -  a willing amalgamation of

circumstance and desire, devise and want.

-

We make our own twirling world with the

simplest clay we are given; for now is

our momentary devise.

4737. MY RED SHIFT

MY RED SHIFT

Ptolomy. Aristotle. All the vagaries of

Allen Funt. All wrapped in one. I can't

take the lineal descendants of whom you

may say I come. There is an icicle hanging

from that bicycle - left out one night and already

frozen cold. You think it says 'PGAMO' on that red

header, that pasted-purpose post-no-bills crap?

I don't know if it does or not. I'm much too

primitve for that. All I know is what I know.

And that's that!

4736. PALEFACE

PALEFACE

'They'll have no mercy, lady; they'll have no

mercy. ' Half Moon Bay, the rest, to Vallejo.

Those California scavengers will be home by

noon - here to roost, to take back things, to

claim what they've left behind. 'I dragged him

out back, it's the best I can do.' Ghosts remain

pale, even after they're found. The sharpness 

of my knifeblade can cut things without effort.

Lies glint in the sunlight. Brown eyes, weathered

dead, fade and turn white by the end of the day.

Oh, by moonlight, please God, help me out.

4735. BATTERY 22

BATTERY 22

Keep things down, marking presence by silence.

There are men on 22, smoking outside their loading dock.

It is already as if their eyes are dead,even though they talk.

Ostentatious behavior  -  for them  -  seems just winking at 

booty, or whatever they say. They call it ass. They call it

Mama. Again with the all-disguised oaths and groans.

-

UPS trucks with slots on their sides for overnight drops.

Gold-trimmed little mailboxes built into trucks.

'It's really a wonderful world for men.'

4734. LET ME BE YOU

LET ME BE YOU

I am so blank. The runway is running down the

time. Fifty yards off, an old shed hides the wreck

of an old civilization. Carnage, it seems, makes religion.

Instant suffrage, and no more to give.

Instant suffrage, and no more to give.

4733. GRAND MAL

GRAND MAL

I'm walking the riverbank again  -  sinkholes and

snakes, all that I see. Across the way  -  two kids in 

a local canoe, a fat guy in his belly-boat pushing off

from his backyard, and, on the other shore some

guy taking photos of a girl; the kind in artclass 

assignments. Everyone's a star in those  - 

15 minutes of fame forever.  I slant the

right demeanor to check my bottle 

and see what's left.

-

Here, the Delaware is a slackening host and

I could find Philadelphia, I'd guess, if I floated

a half-day. Over there, Washington's Crossing 

to New Hope, all that crap from the Lambertville

Side. I've been to Frenchtown and to Lumberton

too. Such a big deal I don't know what to do.

-

I'll have a coffee to tone down this slug. Can't

be drunk on a river of blood. I'm walking this

riverbank again thanks to you.

4732. I DON'T ALWAYS SEE MY OWN HAPPINESS

I DON'T ALWAYS SEE 

MY OWN HAPPINESS

Drawn and quartered? At least not yet; that hasn't happened
 to me. I shed thirty pounds just thinking of it. And I have 
none to spare. Now the easel is at the eraser, and the shadow 
is on the line. Just like a mime, I idle my time pretending to 
pretend to speak, but knowing really, all the time, I can if I 
choose. It's just not the same : like playing at poverty or 
death when you  know you're rich and have a lot yet to live. 
Poorer the man than that, no one is.

-

Marvelling at Angkor Wat? No more you're not.

4731. HERE WITH THE KITE

HERE WITH THE KITE

Things that are flying are often groundless, things sent

aloft stay in place. I don't know the equation for any

of this, I just know to say it's safe. Here's the rumor :

you are nothing more than what you seem; we are 

without foundation; the world will end by fire; the

high sky above is nothing but a reflection; the meaning

of the world is to go without an answer. 

Not that anyone asked.

4730. FIELDS

FIELDS

Fields of wavy something; and all those birds.

The wind rustles the grass, I watch with eyes

subdued but alert. Field mouse to hawk.

Hawk hideout to fieldmouse back.

4729. WORKIN' ON THE RAILROAD

WORKIN' ON THE RAILROAD

Sky-high, this road to perdition. Wide open,

this thruway to Hell. I've parked the tank over 

the garden, and rolled the howitzers and cannon

to the wall. Nothing can get past at all.

-

There's a sound you can make through your lips,

trying to imitate the clickity-clack of the train on the

track. Blue Monday won't let me in, and I've taken

the 5:21 to its guages. But all is not lost; I've found

you in stages. Benumbed, even the saints fall back.

-

Now the snow is whirling again, and something tells

me I'm in for a hell of a ride. When people won't talk

to me. When people won't nod. I'm a stranger now,

like Heinlein said, in a strange land and, oh God, and...

'I've been workin' on the railroad,

all the livelong day.'

4728. HIS KID CURVACEOUS

HIS KID CURVACEOUS

I was watching Marlon Brando knocking down

the midwife in Streetcar -  I wasn't impressed at all,

just wanted love that's all. I drove my Chevy Marble

to the station on 49th  -  just looking to pick up something

I'd forgot. It wasn't on my mind, it just was. Now so long

I've read so much stuff I can't understand a word. Somebody

told me today C. K. Williams was dying but then I looked and

it was incorrect  -  his newest book is 'Writers Writing Dying.'

That's all, it's a title. Something to make me smile. I forget

the simile for that  -  like a joke, like a funeral, as an undertaker

burying someone's donated sperm. Oh my God, I love this game.

Here, let me twirl around until I'm dizzy again : Twice Told Tales,

Laughter and Forgetting, To Kill a Mockingbird, and me.

I have lost all faith in mankind's all things while living.

4727. STRONG, PLAIN AND DELICIOUS

STRONG, PLAIN 

AND DELICIOUS
(kobo abe)

I'm reading all this Japanese prose  -  Oe, Murakami, the rest.

It seems so strange : strong, delicious and plain. Like the

memory of an atomic disaster  -  a few bombs (Fat Man)

and a overblown reactor too. What's the difference when

I ain't got you? Read for yourself  -  and get the hell out

of my way. Read 'Norwegian Wood' by Murakami, then

we'll talk  -  sex and panties, panties and sex. The old

guy dies in his hospital bed, muttering about the train

station and then Midori slips out of her bloomers.

Midori means 'green' in Japanese. It's also the name

of a violinist too  -  like I said to the girl in the dog park

whose dog was named 'Midori.' I said 'Where'd the name

come from?' She said, 'It's a liqueur.' I bet, you fucking

drunken whore-bag. But I didn't mention that last part

part, just said, 'Oh, I didn't know,' instead. Things are

like that sometime. And then I wonder  -  how filthy dirty

can I get on a post like this : poetry for the masses, screwing

in their asses, men don't make passes to girls who wear glasses.

What was that? Dorothy Parker never saw Japan, or if she did 

it was only while looking at the window while some guy was

screwing her brains out from behind. Now, back to Japanese 
novelusts  -  see what I mean, see how they make me think, 
see how crazy this shit gets. Gets to this. 
Brings me nowhere. I can't get off.

4726. CURFEW DELICIOUS

CURFEW DELICIOUS

(me and zimmy)

'If this ain't Turkey then I ain't American.'

That's the kind of thing you just can't really say  -  

at a lunch counter somewhere in the middle of

New York City what was I to think. I don't eat

meat : all that filigree of gristle and torture-death 

makes me ache, so to hear some character say

that was beyond me, though I probably knew 

what he meant. Turkey's a country to me. Kemal

Ataturk and Ecevit too. And then, 'American' well

that's some ersatz crap cheese they make in the land

of the freeze and the home of the crave. So...see 

what I mean? 'Too much confusion here. I can't get no

relief. Businessmen they drink my wine, plowmen dig 

my earth. None of them along the line know what any 

of it is worth. "No reason to get excited', the thief he

kindly spoke, 'there are many here among us who think 

that life is but a joke; but you and I we've been through 

that, and that is not our fate. Let us not talk falsely now, 

the hour is getting late.' Outside in the pale distance, a

wildcat did growl. Two riders were approaching; the 

wind began to howl." With that I awoke in a start, 

banging my head on the edge of the bed. The blood

was running down, I felt it in my eye. I couldn't remember

where I was let alone where I'd been. The mark on my

hand said 'Arrow'; no meaning there at all. Someone had

left a note for me, and the radio was on low  -  detestable,

all that. A weather and crop report, at 5:30am from 

somewhere in Delaware but covering Virginia too. 

What the hell, I thought, was that? My own time 

was running out. It was a mixed-up confusion.

It was curfew delicious. It was over and out.

4725. SIXTEEN NICKELS IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

SIXTEEN NICKELS IN 

THE BLINK OF AN EYE

I started out. I started out. Yes, more than once was

the sun on the horizon. I was running late. I was

running late. Out here in the country, when it gets dark 

early it gets really dark. It gets really dark.

-

The power company wanted for 70 bucks a month for

a pole and a light  -  out front, at the least, I thought it

would illumine the dirt road. Then I thought better of it,

too much dough, too much bread, and with that dough

saved, I could buy bread. Conundrums like that make

me hard-swallow. There's nothing much else to say.

-

In the night, in the dark, in the pitch-black dark of night :

oh yeah, listen to this. I said no to the electric and just

stayed in the dark  -  living each night in the shadows and no

one ever came anyway. I figured 'hell, this ain't Paris, the City

of Lights, anyway, and girls are more fun in the dark.

-

'Yonder stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade...'

I knew every line of that song once. 'I have squandered

my existence for a pocket full of mumbles such are promises...'

-

All lies in jest, but a man he hears what he wants 

to hear and disregards the rest.....

4724. ALL LOOK EQUALLY DEFORMED

ALL LOOK EQUALLY DEFORMED

I love all of Mankind for all of what it is, and is not.

I inhabit the totality of all. I love the glint in an eye

and the wave of a hand and the way a leg moves 

and the lovely gait of a most-sweet swivel. I find

that I can accept the 'all-of' world. Everything at

once. My love inhabits no shelves nor bunkers, 

but is open to everything and all. I inhabit the 

sunshine I  walk in. Where all things are, that 

is where the reign of all-that-is takes its 

start and its finish together.

4723. STEPPING STONE

STEPPING STONE

'Into my lair' said the spider to the fly, but no one

heard the laughter in the courtyard. Those are the

stories we float gamely and grim  -  the name of the

woman who caught me up in the yard was Maria,

that much I knew. Yet how fair is it ever to be captive

to a slew of discontents and wild complaints? 'The heat's

too cold, the cold's too hot; the water's dry and the humid's

not, the air is foul, I get their exhaust, the fan is broken, the

glass is cracked. Who's fault is that?' I listened, believing I

would try; and it wasn't a first attempt. Never should there

be a shallow to this giant lake. I retired long ago, from your

arched observance of complaint. This stepping stone, I am

so afraid, leads only to dank and fouling water.

4722. CARTWHEEL

CARTWHEEL

The flaming rides are arcing high over some

swift religious circumference : little tumbleweed,

broken green tree. I awoke in the morning air,

held up my head to see what was there, and

saw nothing. My blackest cloak beckoned. Wild

men were cutting trees with noisy saws and fiery

stump grinders pealed and whined. I was there.

-

When I was nine I was taught Nature's prayer by

the very sweet lady who visited me there. Her face

was almighty and her visage was fair. 'I am the Mother

of all this World. Take from me, but harm me not.'

I bowed to the lady I vowed to.

-

Now, ten million years later, some humpback is

situating a yellow tractor on a brown dirt mound.

I myself want to main and kill, somehow, just to

see what it's like. And it wouldn't be a tree.

4721. MIKE MARSHALL

MIKE MARSHALL

Two Austrians. Five people from Greece.

Leave me a hint at the door why I've never

left home. I've sharpened this pencil with

writer's blood. Pieces of my heart still dangle :

like a terrorist's bomb, blown all about.

-

I haven't changed Tuesday for Wednesday;

no, nothing like that. All I have is this 

felt-covered notebook. Walking around. 

I write addresses and the names of the

things I think about. There's not really

anything left now, but for ghosts.

-

I am talking to a man who carries laundry 

detergent in his plastic bag : having just come

out of the small store nearby, he begins chatting

about being here 'nine years'. In this town, he says

'things are not so bad -  police keep the order, but

nothing is ever amiss.' He says he came here, back

then, from first Johnstown, then Queens. '150th street 

in Queens to be exact; oh yeah, I've been around.'

4720. THE MAN FROM THE MOUNTAIN KEEPS CHANGING MY TITLE

THE MAN FROM THE MOUNTAIN 

KEEPS CHANGING MY TITLE

Little did I know, from the day I was born, that 

every single thing has secret meaning. The fellow 

with the pushbroom, in the carnival aisle, he is 

sweeping debris, to be sure, but finds - just as well - 

dollars and quarters he can keep for himself. The little 

kid with the gem or mineral in his hand, from the

rock store on 527, he's walking away with ideas of  

'49  in his own small mind. 'I am a prospector for 

gold!' he exclaims. I watch the lady at the register, 

serene and stupid, watch him idly walking off. And, 

then  -  you ask  -  how do I know she is stupid? 

I can tell by the look on her face, and that's good 

enough for me. Prospectors and mountain men, 

all together, singing, can never make up 

a perfect-pitch choir.

4719. WHAT CAN I HONOR TODAY?

WHAT CAN I HONOR TODAY?

Disfavor? Disregard? Disgruntlement?

What can I honor today? My parenthetical

disregard of circumstance and bravery, combined

to one fair favor, brings me back to disrespect.

Just look at this place, it is a wreck. Those highly

skilled historians who claim to know the score

about these things, they're still saying the Russians

lost the war, but only after 'we' had won the peace.

I don't know the meaning of such conjecture. Mikhail

dies in the same manner as John. Twisted and writhing

on a sorry field, those who may have been fathers.

-

The most disgusting thing about Veteran's Day,

besides all the people hanging around on another 

day off, is the disrepute into which we'v put the real :

Men who are dead claiming they still can feel. 

4718. THIS TIME

THIS TIME

When I got up I did not fall back down. The six

men who were working on a nearby roof, they

seemed to have the power of something in their

hands. Flying arcs of nails and hammers and harsh

guns punching nails about. The bite of metal into

wood. Together some seamless array of tedium, 

a tedium I'm sure so normal to them. Yet they

seem strong, and still carry on. I heard the small 

one say, with a red kerchief on his neck : 'This 

time, when I got up, I did not fall back down.'

4717. ON THE CAST OF AN OCEAN

ON THE CAST OF AN OCEAN

There's nothing amiss. My friend, the armsman, 

he has explained it all very well : the streamlined 

sinecure of the white of the sea, foaming at the 

edge of the ship. We look like gulls to the things 

we chase  -  feeding off the throwaways, the slop 

and debris af another world. 'There's beauty 

where you find it, my friend. It all comes 

down to taste, and silence.'