europa?

Something’s Knocking at the Door

a great white light dawns across the
continent
as we fawn over our failed traditions,
often kill to preserve them
or sometimes kill just to kill.
it doesn’t seem to matter: the answers dangle just
out of reach,
out of hand, out of mind.

the leaders of the past were insufficient,
the leaders of the present are unprepared.
we curl up tightly in our beds at night and wait.
it is a waiting without hope, more like
a prayer for the unmerited grace.

it all looks more and more like the same old
movie.
the actors are different but the plot’s the same:
senseless.

we should have known, watching our fathers.
we should have known, watching our mothers.
they did not know, they were not prepared to
teach.
we were too naive to ignore their
counsel
and now we have embraced their
ignorance as our
own.
we are them, multiplied.
we are their unpaid debts.
we are bankrupt
in money and
in spirit.

there are a few exceptions, of course,
but these teeter on the
edge
and will
at any moment
tumble down to join the rest
of us,
the raving,t he battered, the blind and the sadly
corrupt.

a great white light dawns across the
continent,
the flwoers open blindly in the stinking wind,
as grotesque and ultimately
unlivable
our 21st century
struggles to be
born.

(Charles Bukowski)

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.


(charles bukowski: roll the dice)

HEAT - Jane Hirshfield

My mare, when she was in heat,   
would travel the fenceline for hours,   
wearing the impatience
in her feet into the ground.

Not a stallion for miles, I’d assure her,   
give it up.

She’d widen her nostrils,
sieve the wind for news, be moving again,   
her underbelly darkening with sweat,   
then stop at the gate a moment, wait   
to see what I might do.
Oh, I knew
how it was for her, easily
recognized myself in that wide lust:   
came to stand in the pasture
just to see it played.
Offered a hand, a bucket of grain—
a minute’s distraction from passion   
the most I gave.

Then she’d return to what burned her:   
the fence, the fence,
so hoping I might see, might let her free.   
I’d envy her then,
to be so restlessly sure
of heat, and need, and what it takes   
to feed the wanting that we are—

only a gap to open
the width of a mare,
the rest would take care of itself.   
Surely, surely I knew that,
who had the power of bucket   
and bridle—
she would beseech me, sidle up,   
be gone, as life is short.
But desire, desire is long.

“Als Proferation steht ich-liebe-dich auf seiten der Verausgabung. Alle, die die Proferation des Wortes wollen (Lyriker, Lügner, Unstete) sind Subjekte der Verausgabung: sie verausgaben das Wort, so als sei es unverschämt (gemein), es irgendwo wiederzuverwerten; sie stehen an der äußersten Grenze der Sprache, da, wo die Sprache selbst (und er sonst täte das an ihrer Stelle?) erkennt, daß sie ohne Garantie ist, ohne Netz arbeitet.”

(Roland Barthes: Fragmente einer Sprache der Liebe)