And about a million camera shots that'll make little of it in time when there could have been more....How we miss what is beyond that focal length of a lens.. Great piece
Thanks to all of you for not kicking any sand in my face over this one, guys.
Moving on down the beach a bit to Joe’s wonderful poem, I’m sure he remembers this little ditty about the imp in question; and Wooden Boy’s use of “crepuscular” brings to mind this effort from the past.
Thanks, Joe--I almost overlooked this remark--must be the twilight zone encircling my mind, which might also explain the fact that I didn't know Neruda's book had that title--thanks again, amigo!
And about a million camera shots that'll make little of it in time when there could have been more....How we miss what is beyond that focal length of a lens..
ReplyDeleteGreat piece
Yes, great piece indeed.
ReplyDeleteNot nearly as good as yours, and on a different wavelength anyway—from "another life," in fact—but:
ReplyDeleteSANDMAN
I’m up at midnight, sleepless, hunting
for the sandman in a tumbler of whiskey,
neat. But really, not so neat. I’ve never
“needed” drinks till these last few months,
and it scares. I used to know how to kiss
my scars asleep with a sigh, or by walking
them up and down like fussy babies, or
shutting them up with a crow-like laugh;
knowing that love was a waste of breath,
I taught myself how not to breathe. But
she’s made me forget all that—so that now
the pain’s gotten too big for its britches;
I can’t even get the dumb fucker drunk.
And the sandman? He’s taken a powder
with a rolled-up five and wants to talk,
talk, talk about his sleepless life. Well,
what can I do? I hug him like a brother.
I let him cry on my shoulder till dawn.
Thanksgiving night here. Thanks for all the fine poems past and to come, amigo....
"heavenly unfathomable shot": such density and force in these three words.
ReplyDeleteLovely crepuscular thing, this.
Thanks to all of you for not kicking any sand in my face over this one, guys.
ReplyDeleteMoving on down the beach a bit to Joe’s wonderful poem, I’m sure he remembers this little ditty about the imp in question; and Wooden Boy’s use of “crepuscular” brings to mind this effort from the past.
"Your pulse is being taken / By twilight again." Wow! Neruda would be proud—whose first book was Crepusculario....
ReplyDeleteThanks, Joe--I almost overlooked this remark--must be the twilight zone encircling my mind, which might also explain the fact that I didn't know Neruda's book had that title--thanks again, amigo!
ReplyDelete