But he wasn’t president, just a racist old relative with appalling fashion sense, and everyone else was pretending he didn’t exist.
Category: epigrams and conundrums
In a dream, I ask advice on raising children
and am told to bury them in the yard so they’ll ripen.
Every autumn
I’m impressed anew by the sheer inventiveness of death.
I dreamed a giant silk moth fluttered into a museum
and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
I dreamed I’d written a book about all my disguises.
When I woke up, it was true.
The rain comes hammering on the plush roof of the earth.
on the plush roof of the earth. After a while, it opens one by one its mush rooms.
I place myself
on the Underground map uneasily, wondering how such ideal points and lines can add up to anything resembling the surface.
Do the inhabitants of the past ever tire
of our clueless questions and our rapacious gaze?
What is it that we are missing
between footfalls, in a caught breath? What tic or tick of rhetoric makes the ground so unsolid wherever we are told we must mind the gap?
Threat levels us:
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
Immersed in a language you don’t understand,
you become even more attuned to the music of speech and the dark magic of writing.
