for Sydney
One for grass (field of sighs). One, perfect pitch (voice’s veil). Clocks (sun’s ascent, demise) – you name it: blessed, wholesale.
One for bringing me to this day should not be repeated for the same event but once in thirty days – attrition by repetition
when I always thought the strategy of prayer, accretion. Since you cannot form the sounds for the soul’s return to the body,
I will – including your thanks for middle and index fingers, which sate you until the hunger says, cry out, in perfect pitch – innate to infants. All: cry out. (How loud the finches! A regular Friar’s Club meeting. A ten-hen party.)
I have told you that birds say “chirp” and “tweet” – please understand, I am a poor translator, living off one flat ear while the other berates the past in triple-meter,
counterpoint of Cossacks on horseback, fields of conscience underfoot. I am incapable even of mimicking you mimicking me,
and so we wait for the lift in Babel’s lobby: our speech will never grow less confounded than on this day – yom zeh – today, to which we have been brought. (The why I do not know.)
Three Friends
i. Interpret This
Butler and baker, both dreamed: one of the vine, one of bread. One filled up the Pharoah’s cup. One whose crumbs the birds devoured. You will be restored, I told the man whose night sang of wine. The other hanged. The birds supped.
I told the Pharoah: only God interprets dream. I hope you’re on good terms, he winked. Fat kine and full corn mean plenty. Withered ears, of having none: famine. Boom, bust. No one blinked. Once, I dreamed I was the sun.
ii. The Butler’s Quandary
Pity the baker his head now separate from his torso and served up tartar to birds, hanged from the terebinth tree. If I seem hard, it’s that I wonder: does dream instruct fate, or from fate take its cruel cues?
And pity poor Joseph, stuck in jail for being too good- looking. I forgot about him, the good turn he did me. Now that Pharoah’s dreams of kine and corn keep us up at night, should I let Joe save the day?
iii. The Baker’s Lament
My specialty was angel- food cake: harder than it looks. Inside each, I baked a small angel: difficult to find, unless you know their grottos and habits. They like to scratch the noses off our idols.
Of course, my source was bound to dry up – and so, my pastries. Jailed, I met a guy who sifts signs and symbols. I told him of the seven loaves atop my head and saw his fallen face. Aw, say it ain’t so, Joe.
Seen the whole article content. There are a little bit of really informative info here. many thanks. “Brilliance is typically the act of an individual, but incredible stupidity can usually be traced to an organization.” by Jon Bentley..
The the next occasion I read a weblog, I really hope so it doesnt disappoint me around brussels. Come on, man, Yes, it was my option to read, but I just thought youd have some thing interesting to state. All I hear can be a lot of whining about something that you could fix if you werent too busy searching for attention.