Talk alot, but don’t say anything.

The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us,
to transform all these things into symbols, into music, into film,
into something that can last in man’s memory.
That is our duty.
If we don’t fulfil it, we feel unhappiness. 

They would have found her - even as now some encounter the woman of their dreams (in the beauty of the movie screen, a princess they capture with a camera’s flash, the girls who’s fingers brush theirs taking their card at the supermarket register - Found her, that is, not as the person she was, but whom they needed her to be, and, man and woman, each of them wanting a piece of her.
Standing in that wasted landscape, she must’ve seemed a statue, erected there as a tribute to human frailty, white, crystallised, her head turned back as if in longing to be the girl she had been in the city she had known.

A slippery slope, that keeps things sliding away…

Things that can’t and won’t be described in this space…

Money Time…

Supposedly, time is money: money will buy you time, assuming you have money to spend, as well as time to wait while your money grows.

However, time spent waiting can be like money misspent - it’s often time wasted, even if money is made, a kind of time not worth spending, so money isn’t necessarily time.
Maybe time is money if you make with you time something else that makes money, though most of the time it’s not your money you’ve made with your time.

And money isn’t even money necessarily, in a time like this, when money loses value and time is misspent losing money.

And time isn’t even time, necessarily, if it’s lost money on which you’re wasting time, nor is money really money if it’s wasted on wasted time.

Still, sometimes, time is money, but only if you have money and time…

And I have neither.

The house of headache…

I woke up inside the headache. The headache is a room where I have to stay as I cannot afford to pay rent anywhere else. Every hair aches to the point of turning gray. there is an ache inside that gordian knot, the brain, which wants to do so much in so many directions. The ache is also a half moon hanging down in the light blue sky; the colour disappears from my face; my nose is pointing downward; the entire divining rod is turning down toward the subterranean current. I moved into a house built in the wrong place; there is a magnetic pole just under the bed, just under my pillow, and when the weather chops around the bed I am charged. time and again I try to imagine that a celestial bonesetter is pinching me through a miraculous grip on vertebrae, a grip that will put life right once and for all. But the house of headache is not ready to be written off just yet. First I have to live inside it for an hour, two hours, half a day. If at first I said it was a room, change that to a house. 
But the question now is this: Is it not an entire city? Traffic is unbearably slow. The breaking news is out.
And somewhere, a telephone is ringing… 

Intercepts, dribbles, shoots… It’s a miss.
Too bad. It was a goodie as well.

He thought history didn’t exist. Perhaps he was right.

Artless.

…Is my heart.
A stranger berry
there never was,
tartless.

Gone sour in the sun,
in the sunroom or moonroom,
roofless.

No poetry. Plain. No
fresh, special recipe
to bless.

All I’ve ever made
with these hands and life,
less

Substance, more rind.
Mostly rim and trim,
meatless

but making much smoke
in the old smokehouse,
no less.

Fatted from the day,
overripe and even
toxic at eve. Nonetheless,

in the end, if you must
know, if I must bend,
Waistless,

to that excruciation.
No marvel, no harvest
left me speechless,

yet I find myself
somehow with heart,
aloneless.

With heart,
fighting fire with fire,
flightless.

That loud hub of us,
meat stub of us, beating us
senseless.

Spectacular in its way,
its way of not seeing,
congealing dayless

but in everydayness.
In that hopeful haunting,
(a lesser

way of saying
in darkness) there is
silencelessness

for the pressing question.
Heart, what art you?
War, star, part? Or less:

playing a part, staying apart
from the one who loves,
Loveless.

To think, to dream.
To dream, to hope.
To hope, to love.
To love?