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“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.” -little prince

it is hidden..
whatever i am looking for.
i drive myself into pits
looking for it
because when the dead end
or sneers and jabs
enter my thoughts again
it looks suddenly very dark out  b2758181

Some days I wish I could hide forever
and once I’m gone leave not a trace
of where I’d like to be.
Right now the tension’s ‘bout to snap—
lash at the ones holding it taught.
Some days, I’m so tired and weary and scared
I think things that I should not;
like running away.

Some days I wish I could disappear
leaving all the world behind me—
and go a place that’s better.
But what is better than now?
(Is later perhaps the grass that’s greener?)
Some days I want to reach out and touch and cry
for what I can see in the now;
such as cabbages and kings.

Funny how you can still feel the same as you did then.

and I don’t know where to start
and I don’t know where to start
you might think its easy but
you might find differently,
differently.
you play me like you play poker
you lay down your cards and
leave with all the money
you know too much about me but
i don’t know
i don’t know!
i do know if you got me started
i’d go on
and who’d be
who’d be listening to me
nobody

Why not a splattered dropcloth acting as a rug?
Another table and chair put this here and there.
Why take this away; what about mod?
I have my own styles; smile and nod.
You’ll comment but I’ll still back up my claim.
Why not a garden and a wrought iron chair?
A collection of spoons—
And some paintings—
Or a statue—
And book shelves full of words and punctuation marks.
The piano and the classics
Rather are pleasing to look at where they lay.
Curtains made of punjabi scarves;
A cat or two on the duvet.

“I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
That explains the trouble that I’m always in

Be patient, is very good advice
But the waiting makes me curious
And I’d love the change
Should something strange begin

Well I went along my merry way
And I never stopped to reason
I should have know there’d be a price to pay
Someday…someday

I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?”

11/10/08

Some days I wish I could hide forever
and once I’m gone leave not a trace
of where I’d like to be.
Right now the tension’s ‘bout to snap—
lash at the ones holding it taught.
Some days, I’m so tired and weary and scared
I think things that I should not;
like running away.

Some days I wish I could disappear
leaving all the world behind me—
and go a place that’s better.
But what is better than now?
(Is later perhaps the grass that’s greener?)
Some days I want to reach out and touch and cry
for what I can see in the now;
such as cabbages and kings.

I can still feel the cold hardness
of the glass
being grasped—
I can steel feel the instant
it fell free
out of my hand—
I can still hear the shattering glass
the dancing
of the pieces—
I can still feel the relief
the regret
the piercing splinters—
I can still wish I was sad and fire
easily endable
brilliantly shatterable—
I can still remember the beauty
of that moment—
the short measure
in which life was perfect.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S. Eliot

There are things that are hard to forget
Things that weigh me down
The kind you clutch and the kind that you desperately push away
A thought that seems unmovable
People that tear me down
The kind that are always there and the kind that are hard not to hear
I pound my fists against this wall
Made of time and thoughts and stone
And fail to notice the smallest crack
But notice the breaks in my bones
The thoughts, the people, the words
I desperately want to burn
Is like burning damp wood making my eyes sting
So I fail to notice the smallest spark
But notice the tears and blood
And fail to see the plant take root in the unmovable wall;
The spark grow bright in the unburnable wood.