The Holy Longing
Tell a wise person, or else keep silent,
because the mass man will mock it right away.
I praise what is truly alive,
what longs to be burned to death.
In the calm water of the love-nights,
where you were begotten, where you have begotten,
a strange feeling comes over you,
when you see the silent candle burning.
Now you are no longer caught in the obsession with darkness,
and a desire for higher love-making sweeps you upward.
Distance does not make you falter.
Now, arriving in magic, flying,
and finally, insane for the light,
you are the butterfly and you are gone.
And so long as you haven’t experienced this: to die and so to grow,
you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth.
~Johan W. Von Goethe, trans. by Robert Bly
(Photo by Massimo Renzi)
Czechoslovakian Amati Kraslice with Sparkle-aire mouth piece Rovner dark ligature & a French Vandoren reed my soul extender
Band s warming up some cheerful carols about sugar plums candy canes & lines of procrastination A one & a two more horn Interpretate this one meaning standing 2 close 2 th one in front of you Honking me forward this occasion was in the form of behind A country of their own confident blather-ing colossus Professing loudly into handheld justification further attracting attention Peripheral vision observed repeated hand switch to recover lost material constantly slipping round th curve no belt in the fat of obsession could find anchor I wonder did I really need to be in the honeybaked line
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unfortunate … thoughts from that moment uncaptured
Happy Holidays Anyways
I don’t cry anymore. Or perhaps it is that the tears are meaningless. I am already drowning in a sea of tears, created by the wellspring deep within my heart that will not stop its great sundering, building me a watery grave, a watery sign that by some great design, I was born to sink, not swim. And so I do not flail, I do not wave my arms about in a futile attempt to learn the rhythm of the world, the beat of existence that would bring me into the comfort of belonging, I do not swoon at the sight of filtered light from above that shines into my aqueous dominion as one would watch a lover fade away. Instead, I wait in resigned discontent that knows its purpose though it may not like it. I watch and count the hours and the days as I hold my metaphorical breath and I ponder what would happen if I just let go and drank my sorrow to its end