life’s object is to survive. the human cry, the human cry bewails the torrent of consciousness. the hand of the past holds us to the future our nostrils pressed against the glass. light etched in the corner of a tall dark room knees supporting forearm forearm hand head head the weight of lifelong moments, he sits bewailing the torrent. sss that human cry, death of fear, mortal terror, quilt of material possessions: the tree burnt, the red coal faces, mouths open shut, screaming to keep us warm. sss 9/15/74 the Soviets quashed art today: quash art – socialist realism “I point my finger to the nose of the Soviets.” john hancock sss 10/31/74 Should we make a memorial of a school bus once hit by a train? Could we immortalized those children mashed that day? Or is death immortal memorial enough? sss The Hermit i was minding alone business my own in a pine grove unguarded, when a child wondered by. she sat at my feel and spoke: “Hay wo Miss ta.” awk, curruptable things best unseen: “Go away little girl, you rile me, heea. Your soft thoughts, billowy white, will dissipate into the night.” i dare not ask her to stay. sss Marc belabored the point: “Where were you? Last night?” Karen wouldn’t answer: “Marc, for the last time, it’s my affair.” “Well then what of us?” “It was sitting well where it was.” “It bothers me, I can’t have you going out with other men.” “You can’t have me, your way or any way. I am mine own person.” “If you are my girl, then you can only be my girl, no one else’s.” “I am my own girl, and I see you I please!” “You can’t continue to make love to every boy you like.” “Why not?” “You’ll become diseased.” “Marc, you are insane, you can’t believe that.” “It’s true.” sss Seth bless my bones, a dogger. get off my knees? we’ll smile awhile: we’ll cut across the garbage road down to the reddened marsh: across and up that hill to those rocks rising out of the old dirt, braving wind and rain. A good spot for a puppy to learn silence: Silence is listening: sss Here I had hoped for one more day, but I’m lying in bed alone. Here I had hoped you might have stayed, as memory caresses the empty air. I expect, I know, I’ll see you again, and heaven will quickly pass and you will be in the air again and I’ll be home alone at last.

Copyright James Phoenix 2017

updated 5/7/2017