The Door

One day you'll see:
you've been knocking on a door
without a house.

You've been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of daring and hope.
One day you'll see:
there is no one on the other side
except as ever, the jubilant ocean
that won't shatter ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.

But not yet. Now
you wait outside, watching
the blue arches of mornings
that will break
but are now perfect.

Underneath on tiptoe
pass the faces, speaking to you,
saying 'you', 'you', 'you',
smiling, waving, arriving
in unfailing chronology.

One day you'll doubt your movements,
you will shudder
at the accuracy of your sudden age.

You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life.
But not yet. Hope
fills the yawn of time.

Blue surrounds you. Now let's say
you see a door and knock,
and wait for someone to hear.


KAPKA KASSABOVA

exploring wrecks

We are, 

I am, 

you are

by cowardice 

or courage

the one who find our way

back to this scene

carrying a knife, a camera

a book of myths

in which

our names do not appear.

ADRIENNE RICH

Boast of Quietness

Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
understand them.

Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.

My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.

My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.

More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.

My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive.

― Jorge Luis Borges

are you going to make it?

We are like roses that have never bothered to

bloom when we should have bloomed and

it is as if

the sun has become disgusted with

waiting 

Charles Bukowski

where to?

Earth, earth, 

riding your merry-go-round...

All in all, I'd say, 

the world is strangling.

And I, in my bed each night, 

listen to my twenty shoes

converse about it.

And the moon, 

under its dark hood, 

falls out of the sky each night, 

with its hungry red mouth

to suck at my scars. 

Anne Sexton, As It Was Written