3 hours ago
Monday, January 11, 2010
Night Falls, And Keeps On Falling
Somewhere in the darkness I hear the computer breathing.
It sounds like a man packed in ice in a dark hospital room,
each breath forced through the tubes of some machine
that draws and amplifies each rattling breath. All the
while the machine sits there in utterly objective silence,
waiting for the man to finally find something to say.
I listen until the computer sighs, and then stops breathing.
And now I suppose it's time to go looking for a hole
to park my own corner, or a corner to park my hole,
a shadow that doesn't require any light to grow,
a dream without a single recognizable face or place.
Because I'm tired of trying to say something lovely.
Go ahead, try to say something lovely --go right
ahead-- and see for yourself how damn hard it is.
Is it possible too much loveliness
has already been written and spoken?
It cannot be, because when there is nothing lovely
left to say one must inevitably resort to ugliness,
which should not have a place in a world of so much
loveliness, but boy does it ever. Ugliness, carelessness,
ruthlessness, naked ambition, covetousness, evil:
they flourish precisely because loveliness is so
fucking hard, even as it is everywhere, all around us,
thumbing its nose at the abject helplessness of words.