Monday, March 17, 2014

17 March 2014

Anna Moschovakis [CoffeeHousePress]


The problem is I don’t care whether I convince you or not
In a perfect world I would be able to convince you of this

Everybody should always have a position on everything
We take our positions with us, like folding stools to the beach
The stools, when we abandon them, fade to the same color

And I will go with you to the end of this argument
As I have gone with you to the beach
And the man with the cooler will walk by selling streets
And we will pick a street to carry us home

We’ll pick the one with the best-loved name
A flower or a state or October the 12th
Because each date must be celebrated somewhere in this world
Each moment of courage or loss or revolution
When something pushed something and something fell down

The Tragedy of Waste [excerpt]

Suppose that instead of killing Germans
the organization had been directed
to the killing of malnutrition, slum dwelling,
shoddy clothing, infant mortality, occupational disease, starved
opportunity, illiteracy, and ignorance

             for example

Death As a Way of Life [excerpt]

Man dies, that is nothing.

          when a woman sits on the edge of her bed, in front of a window, and lets down her red silken hair, threading it through her delicate fingers as it cascades in waves down her porcelain back, which reflects the moon’s silvery mood, so that any man privileged enough to catch a glimpse of her falls directly to his knees, blind, lost, panting for breath, choking on words he can’t pronounce, starving for familiar phrases he can no longer retrieve from their world of abstraction now that the real thing is manifest before him, so that he vomits up his lunch, his excellent breakfast, and the previous night’s dinner, disgusted with anything he saw fit to consume before setting sight on this morsel of perfection, and lies there in half-crazed ecstasy for three days and three long nights, without food or water, his senses damaged to the point of extinction, until he is on the verge of death, and the moon’s high silver has fallen to dust, and nobody can help him so nobody tries, and the woman is gone, and her hair is gone, and her porcelain back is gone, and her slender fingers, and even her image is gone, and still he has no regrets, and he welcomes death, invites it, knowing as he’s never known anything before that his life wants for nothing
                    now that is something

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