In my Future Come then to my future time when you won’t find me however, do come pull the thread of all events that will take place exhaust me to the final possibility. The current returns and I melt with the cities and the reddish buildings stones and roofs melt the metal of my voice too. A heavenly light floods me most shining dead light black. Come then to my present past come then not death, sleep, beyond flesh not expiation cauterize this laughter cauterize this side of me stop the smile, the futile heart the infrared blood. In my future time, I’m already dead fresh and dead in my darkness not forgetfulness, memory, truth, I’ll think, I’ll tell you, I don’t know, I love you, until when, never, not yes, not no I, a rider, jump over exquisite hurdles valiant rider in glassy cities alive and dead that sink in clouds and clouds which perhaps yes, perhaps no.
…ently held out his hands to her. His missing fingers did not seem to faze him; he appeared to be learning to compensate for the loss. “An’ you know what, too, Auntie Tyne?” He gazed up at her when she stood, his eyes like saucers now. “Rachael says we’re goin’ home on the really biggest old bus she’s ever seen, with a long dog on the side.” Tyne chuckled. “You sure are, Bobby. And when Uncle Morley and I come home you’ll be able to tell us all about it. Okay?” Solemnly, he nodded his head then offered his hand to Tyne’s mother. Shoulders erect and head held high, he escorted her through the door. A few days later Emily Milligan brought the children back to the Holy Cross, to say goodbye before starting their trip home to Emblem. Tyne took them to see Morley. Following Sister Carol Ann’s gentle instructions, they approached the bed quietly, and stared in wonder at the man they scarcely recognized as the jovial person whom they called Uncle Morley. His hair had grown a little so that he didn’t appear bald anymore, and the bruises around his eyes and cheeks had faded to a pale yellow, tinged with blue. But Tyne knew that he must look strange to the children who were seeing him for the first time since the beating. She had been of two minds about bringing them to his room, but Morley had asked to see them. And when he opened his eyes and smiled at them, she knew she had made the right decision. There was something she and Morley wanted to do together before the kids left for home. “Do you … have the gifts, hon?” Morley asked haltingly. Tyne removed a large bag from the bottom of the bedside table. Opening it, she drew out a brightly painted dump truck followed by a Shirley Temple doll. The looks on the faces of Rachael and Bobby brought tears to her eyes. When they had gone, Tyne took Ronald to a quiet waiting room. He had tried, without success, to hold back the tears. She wanted to hug him, but knew he already felt embarrassed because of loss of control over his emotions, so she sat quietly by his side and let him talk. “I wish I could go with them, Mrs. Cresswell. Do you think the doctors will let me go soon?”
Necrophilia Bradley reached home late at night after a long flight, during which they experienced their fair share of turbulence. He knew this flight so well after twenty years of taking it, since he started working on the East Coast, and his house was in Los Angeles. He also knew most of the American Airlines personnel; he had an account set up by the Bureau and always flew this airline. And tonight, Georgia, the flight attendant, offered him a second glass of wine and a good plateful of food, which he relished to the last crumb. Being with the Bureau for so long, he almost did everything as part of a routine, a repetitive action, from the time he’d call to arrange his reservation to the arrival at the airport and to the airline counter where most of the girls recognized him and always served him the best way. The agency took care of all the bills, it was part of his contract with the CIA and no one ever raised an eyebrow at what he submitted; it was times when he thought of having something extra, something the bureau wouldn’t even bother to look into, however, Bradley was a common sense man and always did his side the best and fairest way possible to make sure he wouldn’t disturb any waters a couple of years away from his retirement. When he got inside the house, he noticed there was no sound, other than the ventilation system humming its rhythmical music. Brad was so tired that he took off his shoes and went upstairs to their bedroom, only to find his wife, Beth, asleep, even though he had informed her he was on his way home. Undressed, he slipped under the bedcovers when he smelled the strong alcohol odour all over the…
He walked back to the rented room and settled in his new home. It was a small room with a table, a chair, a closet for his clothes, and a single bed. The size of the room was no more than three by four meters, with paint cracks all over; some paint had peeled right off the walls. He didn’t really care about its condition. It was a very cheap room. A small window with shutters opened to the street, and Hermes saw a small garden. He took out his clothes from the suitcase and hung them with care in the closet. He, then, sat down on the bed and thought it would be a good idea to write home and let them know he had arrived and was okay, three letters to three different addresses. Realizing he had no paper, he walked out to the closest corner store, where he bought some paper, a small jar of coffee and a small rectangular box of sugar cubes, which he encountered for the first time in his life. He went back to his room and sat at the desk to write his first letter to his uncle and untie. He described in detail that his trip was very good, the city was beautiful, and he felt enthusiastic about the university. He wrote with intense feelings, particularly in the second letter, addressed to Magdalene. He signed the letters and sealed the envelopes. He would post them first thing tomorrow morning. Hunger took over him. He got up, knocked at the door of his landlady and asked where he could find a restaurant to eat something. She informed him that “Black Cat” was the closest restaurant to the house and told him how to get there. Hermes got out and walked the few blocks to the restaurant. The server brought his coffee. Hermes understood that coffee was served each time, even before an order was given to the servers. He looked at the menu, but he couldn’t understand the words; therefore, he didn’t know what to order. He had his coffee and a cigarette. The girl refilled his cup and looked at him with questioning eyes. He pointed to the menu and said, “I don’t know what these are…” his finger travelling down the list of food items. The young server asked him, “What language does he speak…” He said, “Greek,” she called him to follow her. He got up and followed the girl through a hallway to an opening that connected the restaurant to the kitchen.
Thus I became a copper-smith. The furnish gleams as the breeze blows in it the insatiable fire is ready to consume everything flame embraces the steel its echoing roar springs out of its hungry teeth like a tamed lion like a sprite and the immovable anvil and the fast pounding hammer commence a thunderous battle hammer becoming the creator.
Libra Solemn and beautiful stranger you who undress the salute and the sun to the bone who sow the side of a daydream as our hours unfold and salute you with feathers of winds they gleam with songs for the sea’s birthday they salute you as our lust sinks shooting stars seagulls in the hourglass of your laughter volunteers of the ancient epic with its circular returns. Solemn and beautiful stranger you are welcome till you exhaust yourself.
Phone Call Your voice sounded abrupt echoing strangely on the other side of the telephone line you rekindled our last conversation reminded me of our last meeting during that autumn brown leaves over the lone grave site as I was disturbed with the red carnation on your lapel didn’t expect your phone call your voice obviously hesitant while your laughter roared through the wire like the cold sweat poured over my whole body. Strange, I didn’t expect you to call so soon: it was day before yesterday when we buried you
Without Counterweight Disgust, he said, disgust; seal your ears, your nostrils, your eyes. To hear what? To see what? Seven bullets, eight bullets. And the killer killed, same as the other, here and there. Where can you look? What can you juxtapose? All the flags are torn to the whole length of time and there isn’t one on a balcony to lower half mast. Old newspapers float on the water next to the drown men.
Having reached this point, we shall attempt to establish the connection with the other assertion according to which the vast majority of aestheticians believe that poetry, as fiction, may disregard truth as correspondence with reality, and consequently may also disregard the world and reality themselves as Imaginative possibilities. As we have already indicated, this assertion is broadly correct and contains a certain apparent degree of veridicality (sic!); nevertheless, it is fundamentally false. This falsehood stems, specifically, from a mistaken understanding of the notion of truth–an error perpetuated ever since Aristotle and finding its definitive expression in the Thomistic formula adequatio rei ad intellectum. It is no longer a bold claim to state that Europeans employ the concept of truth in a manner that might be regarded as arbitrary, totalizing, and one-sided. Over time, the Thomistic definition has gained increasing ground, eventually imposing itself almost completely. In this respect, the example of the sciences is more than revealing. As a consequence, we now think of truth only formaliter, that is, as the correspondence of the intellect to the thing, to empirical factuality and objectively available reality. Yet truth must instead be thought on the basis of that which is true. Our discussion of this concept will begin with the Greek word Aletheia, drawing support from Heidegger’s interpretation, in which Aletheia is understood as unconcealment, the state of being disclosed. Is it necessary to reactivate the Greek philosophical concepts concerning truth? “Not at all. A reactivation, even if such an impossibility were to become possible, would be of no help. For the hidden history of Greek philosophy consists from the very beginning in the fact that it turns away from the essence of truth–which announces itself in a flash through the word aletheia–and finds itself increasingly…
