Papa Hemingway, gone to pot in Mexico– to have and have not. Advertisements
There is a legend of a door hidden from hearts– How stones, unturned, scar.
This house on a hill, overlooking love, dreams us– Clouds, gently touched, swell.
Young girl on terrace, looking down upon the world– Where did mommy go?
No painter required, just a door, and running blues– Fuck museum walls.
Fasting on patience, the cat became enlightened– No reason to leap.
Almost as if the stones, a bundle of prehistoric easter eggs, and petrified sweeps and flourishes of gondoliering motion, were modeling poetry, an implacable ode and incalculable sonnet to the sea, whose flagrant tempest, bound to strict meter, abrades the … Continue reading
Wherever there is a time-scarred stone stairwell, there is the wandersick soul of Orpheus, forever walking backwards in search of his Eurydice, her heart the lost season in a hell of imagined distance.
Katabasis, Greek for downgoing or descent– Orpheus, evinced.
