Several weeks ago something made me think about rereading Tristan Tzara’s “Approximate Man.” I searched every bookcase in the house multiple times( yes, I am obsessive). I couldn’t find it. I knew I had not loaned it out… I mean who do I know that would want to read it? Then yesterday, from across the room, I spotted it on the shelf in plain sight. I figure a ghost, or old age.
“the death of the image of my own life”
The voices’ cacophony abates slowly
into a hushed whisper between friends;
the frantic caws and suppositions ebb
like the soft susurrations of the sea
rhythmically wash along a darkened shore.
The long list of self recriminations,
snuffing after me like hounds baying
beneath an October moon, have faded,
and I am left waiting upon the dawn
within a fragile calm of my old silences.
(March 2, 2015)
, as holistic
help us to
to work, and why
the most basic
through the vast
ships of the earth’s
(from “primogenitive folly,” August 2001-April 2003)