Lovely Soldiers Idol Ride (A Mini Anthology)

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Why we have not developed into friends. My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. I myself can hardly understand. We must leave it now to fate. You will write, at any rate. Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance — Well! Would she not have the advantage, after all?

This music is successful with a "dying fall" Now that we talk of dying — And should I have the right to smile? Long after the event, one of the three wise men who journeyed to the place of Christ's birth here recalls his long trek from the East and meditates upon the meaning of that experience. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters. And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly. Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was you may say satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was T.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death. He was educated at Leamington College and Downing College, Cambridge, and then took teaching assignments in England, Egypt, Japan, Ger- many, and Thailand before assuming his present post.

Court-ladies flow in gentle streams, Or, gathering lotus, strain sideways from their curving boat, A donkey prances, or a kite dances in the sky, or soars like sacrificial smoke. All is flux: waters fall and leap, and bridges leap and fall. Even his Tortoise undulates, and his Spring Hat is lively as a pool of fish. All he ever saw was sea: a sea of marble splinters — Long bright fingers claw across his pages, fjords and islands and shattered trees — And the Laughing Hyena, cavalier of evil, as volcanic as the rest: Elegant in a flowered gown, a face like a bomb-burst, Featured with fangs and built about a rigid laugh, Ever moving, like a pond's surface where a corpse has sunk.

Between the raised talons of the right hand rests an object — At rest, like a pale island in a savage sea — a child's head, Immobile, authentic, torn and bloody — The point of repose in the picture, the point of movement in us. Terrible enough, this demon.

Yet it is present and perfect, Firm as its horns, curling among its thick and handsome hair. I find it an honest visitant, even consoling, after all Those sententious phantoms, choked with rage and uncertainty, Who grimace from contemporary pages. It, at least, Knows exactly why it laughs.

ENRICHT 95 Players are British cigarettes; Akhenaton was a king of ancient Egypt who believed that the sun was god and god alone and attempted to found a new religion based on his belief. Was it like this in my day, at my place? Memory boggles Between the aggressive fly and curious ant — but did I really Pause in my painful flight to light a cigarette or swallow drugs? The nervous eye, patrolling these hot unhappy victims, Flinches at the symptoms of a year's hard teaching — 'Falstaff indulged in drinking and sexcess', and then, 'Doolittle was a dusty man' and 'Dr. Jonson edited the Yellow Book.

Subsequently he taught at the University of Puerto Rico, in Rio Piedras and in Mayaguez, where he met his wife, and spent two years in France on a Fulbright fellowship. Vitellozzo Vitelli, a nobleman who was murdered by Cesar e Borgia in , is here presented in circum- stances that reflect the whimsical, or predetermined, course of the fate of any man. For all his speed, his past Like a heavy wind has thrown his death far before Him, and not till midday shall he fill the waste Of light he has made with the goldness of his spur And the greenness of his cape.

Then shall he stand At last by the bridge at Fano and know no more His way than the farmer at noon who looks from his land To his heart and knows not where next to turn his plow; Or lovers who have stayed abed and reach a hand And yet have turned away, even as they do so, To move their legs and sigh, wearied of their embrace — Yet nothing else seems worth their while. His road shall go Before him, having broken itself in two ways: One goes to Borgia in Fano, and one toward Rome.

But his shadow hurries from his feet to his face. How could we know? Everything seemed easier. In the streets a little mud. With the first faint drops, a tiny breeze Trembled the cornsilk, and the frailest leaves Turned on their stems this way and that. Coming from the fields for lunch I thought it my sweat. On the second day streamlets ran In the furrows; the plow stuck, The oxen balked. On the third day The rain ran from the roof like a sea. I thought I would visit town. Farmers from their farms, merchants from stores, Laborers, we filled the town.

I Stayed with a cousin. We were told The granary was full, we could live A thousand days should the river rise impetuously. The fifth day the clouds seemed hung From the tops of the tallest trees. The sun We did not see at all. And the rain Beat down as if to crush the roof.

I did not shave or write my wife. On the sixth day, we moved the women And children to the town church, built On the highest ground hard by the granary. We finished work on the levee. The river was thick with silt. A dark drizzle started in my head. Next day it trickled on the walls of my skull Like black earth drifting down a grave. We resolved to stay in the church come what will. That day I did not leave my bed. Not even the wisest knows or dares guess. Did we not plan, care, save, toil, Did we lay idle or lust, did we waste or spoil? Therefore, why on us? The husbandman from his flock, Husband from wife, the miser from his heap, The wise man from his wit, from her urn The widow — are tumbled all, as a man might knock The ashes from his pipe.

And the days descended in a stream, So fast they could not be told apart. In the church all went black. Once I lay with Lenah as in a dream. Another time I found myself at Adah's back. If no one gets up at dawn to wind The clock, shall not the state run down? If no one gets up to go to the fields To feed the cows, to sow the wheat, To reap, how shall the state grow fat?

One comes telling us Noah has built a boat That through the flood he may ride about, And filled it all with animals. Just like the drunken fool, that slut- Chaser, to think of no one else. I feed my friends and kin; twenty-nine thrived In my home. But mad Noah harangues the air Or goes muttering in his cuff As though a god were up his sleeve.

Who is Noah to get saved? I am a farmer, I love my wife, My sons are many and strong, my land is green. We were children together. Shall not the world run down? Why on us? Did we not plan? Does not black blood flow before my eyes And blackness brim inside my skull? Did we lie idle? Did we spoil? Out of its harness the mind wild as a horse Roams the rooms and streets. There are some that say Noah sits amid the rude beasts in his ark And they feed one upon the other in the dark And in the dark they mate.

And some say worse: That a griffin was born, and centaur And sphinx hammer at the door. Groans and moans are heard, by some the roar Of giant Hippogriff. Still others cry That all about the earth is dry! Dry as if no rain had fallen, As if we were not awaiting the swollen River, as if the clouds did not sit On our chimneys, or the waters Tumble past our windows in spate.

And some here say a dove has come, Sure, they think, the sign of a god. And others say that Noah walks the street Puffed with news. But bid him wait! We are busy with our flood. Persephone brings flowers, to them New styles in spring. In seven glittering Greys, under round grey hats of straw — Lo! And their bones have drawn together In gentle communities of joints, Like weary soldiers dreaming head to head. Hup, they go, ho! He was educated at Choate, Harvard, and Trinity College, Cambridge, where he studied philosophy and classical languages. He once worked as a reporter on the New York Herald Tribune and for a number of years was a leading writer in several departments of Time.

His reputation is based not only on his own original work but on his widely praised and frequently performed transla- tions, in collaboration with Dudley Fitts, of the Greek playwrights. He returned in to the United States for a visit when his translation of Homer's Odyssey was published.

Many went down there, Down blowing passages and dimness where Rocketing cars were sucked out of sound in the tunnel. A train came and expired, opening slots to us All alacritous moving in voiceless numbers, Haunch to haunch, elbow to hard elbow. One would sleep, gaping and sagged in a corner, One might wish for a seat by the girl yonder; Each a-sway with his useless heavy headpiece. II Tenements: "islands 5 ' in the ancient city. Neither under the old law nor the new Could any insulation make them gentle. Here I retired, here I did lay me down — Beyond the washing lines reeled in at evening, Beyond the roofpots and the lightless skylights, The elevated grated round a curve To pick up pitch diminishing toward silence — And took my ease amid that hardihood: The virago at her sill obscenely screeching Or the lutanist plucking away at "My Lady Greensleeves.

A hopped up drummer's perfect Tocking periodicity and abandon. Diddle di daddle di yup yup Whisper to me daddy. On the Down, the down beat, beat. The spot's on blondie, see her croon, See that remarkable subtle pelvic Universal joint softly rolling. Honey take it sweet and slow, Honey, take your time. Roll those eyes and send, baby, send.

And swing it. Or Rumba. Won't you come over to my table. Meet Rosemary. This is Rosemary. IV The manhole disks were prone shields of morning Where the sun greeted the avenue. The fresh net placed on the fair hair! The baseball immortal, Ty Cobb, died in In a kind of poetic shorthand, the poem attempts to catch the speech and rhythm of the national pastime without any sort of imposed comment.

Talk it up, boys, a little practice. Coming in stubby and fast, the baseman Gathers a grounder in fat green grass, Picks it stinging and clipped as wit Into the leather: a swinging step Wings it deadeye down to first. Oh, attaboy, attyoldboy. Pick it up today and read it if you haven't. This author never seems to disappoint!!! It's not often a psychological thriller manages to surprise me, but this twist left me with my mouth hanging wide open and consequently saying 'NO WAY! Wow, what a page turner! This was a great, gripping, tense, compelling, fast-paced psychological thriller that sucked me in from the very first page!

Best ever! Totally shocked by the ending. Do NOT miss! And this new book is pure Shalini crazy! I loved every word, page and paragraph! I was hooked and I did get emotional reading it… Put this on your summer must read shelf now! What a story! You have to read it for yourself! Loved it!! You will not regret purchasing this book! I literally could not stop reading… Exciting and spellbinding. If you like to read psychological thrillers, don't miss this one! I'm a big fan of her novels and this one left me breathless. They still hint at an age more colorful and gallant than our own, but are often debunked by boring people who like to run on about drafts and grumble that the latrines did not work.

Joseph and Frances Gies offer a book that helps set the record straight—and keeps the romance too. A widely respected academic work and a source for George R. Focusing on Chepstow, an English castle that survived the turbulent Middle Ages with a relative lack of violence, the book offers an exquisite portrait of what day-to-day life was actually like during the era, and of the key role the castle played.

The Gieses take us through the full cycle of a medieval year, dictated by the rhythms of the harvest. We learn what lords and serfs alike would have worn, eaten, and done for leisure, and of the outside threats the castle always hoped to keep at bay. For medieval buffs and anyone who wants to learn more about this fascinating era, Life in a Medieval Castle is as timely today as when it was first published.

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark is a timeless collection of chillingly scary tales and legends, in which folklorist Alvin Schwartz offers up some of the most alarming tales of horror, dark revenge, and supernatural events of all time. Read if you dare! One beautiful autumn day, while he undergoes a routine medical procedure, something goes irrevocably wrong. Dodge is pronounced brain dead and put on life support, leaving his stunned family and close friends with difficult decisions. Long ago, when a much younger Dodge drew up his will, he directed that his body be given to a cryonics company now owned by enigmatic tech entrepreneur Elmo Shepherd.

It is an achievement that is nothing less than the disruption of death itself. An eternal afterlife—the Bitworld—is created, in which humans continue to exist as digital souls. Fall, or Dodge in Hell is pure, unadulterated fun: a grand drama of analog and digital, man and machine, angels and demons, gods and followers, the finite and the eternal.

In this exhilarating epic, Neal Stephenson raises profound existential questions and touches on the revolutionary breakthroughs that are transforming our future. Combining the technological, philosophical, and spiritual in one grand myth, he delivers a mind-blowing speculative literary saga for the modern age. Then follow the guidelines in this book on how to set up your store and boost your sales. Remember that anything can be sold on Shopify. This book contains proven steps and strategies on how to start, grow and succeed in business using Shopify.

This book covers tips for small scale and large scale businesses to increase their revenue and build a formidable client base. While most people operate with only three degrees of action-no action, retreat, or normal action-if you're after big goals, you don't want to settle for the ordinary. To reach the next level, you must understand the coveted 4th degree of action.

This 4th degree, also know as the 10 X Rule, is that level of action that guarantees companies and individuals realize their goals and dreams. It also demonstrates why people get stuck in the first three actions and how to move into making the 10X Rule a discipline. Find out exactly where to start, what to do, and how to follow up each action you take with more action to achieve Massive Action results. Extreme success is by definition outside the realm of normal action. Instead of behaving like everybody else and settling for average results, take Massive Action with The 10 X Rule, remove luck and chance from your business equation, and lock in massive success.

We all know that person who seemingly was born to succeed. Fitness, health, business, they achieve all their goals. You want that success, and know you can get it Everywhere you turn, there are obstacles that block your path. You need the self-discipline and willpower to see you through to the end. You need the tools that will enable you to have that self-discipline and willpower. Daily Self-Discipline has those tools. Each page of this book is designed to help you build the self-discipline that leads to the resiliency and mental strength you need on a daily basis.

Simple everyday exercises and habit-forming practices will teach you the skills you need to overcome obstacles and have confidence in yourself and your path to success. Keywords: develop self discipline, willpower and self discipline, self-discipline, self control books, stress, reach your goals, self-control, achieve your goals, instant gratification, long term goals, goal setting success, goal setting books, how to reach your goals, how to achieve your goals, persistence, how not to give up, stick to a diet, stay motivated, build habits, delayed gratification, personal development. What is the nature of space and time?

How do we fit within the universe? How does the universe fit within us? But today, few of us have time to contemplate the cosmos. So Tyson brings the universe down to Earth succinctly and clearly, with sparkling wit, in tasty chapters consumable anytime and anywhere in your busy day. While you wait for your morning coffee to brew, for the bus, the train, or a plane to arrive, Astrophysics for People in a Hurry will reveal just what you need to be fluent and ready for the next cosmic headlines: from the Big Bang to black holes, from quarks to quantum mechanics, and from the search for planets to the search for life in the universe.

But everything changed the night magic disappeared. You will be ready to rise up and reclaim your own magic! Neil Gaiman, long inspired by ancient mythology in creating the fantastical realms of his fiction, presents a bravura rendition of the Norse gods and their world from their origin though their upheaval in Ragnarok. Gaiman fashions these primeval stories into a novelistic arc that begins with the genesis of the legendary nine worlds and delves into the exploits of deities, dwarfs, and giants. A perennial favorite of readers worldwide, American Gods tells the story of ex-con Shadow Moon, who emerges from prison and is recruited to be bodyguard, driver, and errand boy for the enigmatic Mr.

So begins a dark and strange road trip full of fantastical adventures and a host of eccentric characters. For, beneath the placid surface of everyday life, a storm is brewing—an epic war for the very soul of America—and Shadow is standing squarely in its path. Carefully chosen illustrations complement and illuminate the narrative. Covey's 7 Habits book is one of the most inspiring and impactful books ever written.

Now you can enjoy and learn critical lessons about the habits of successful people that will enrich your life's experience. And, it's in an interactive format that makes it easy for you to learn and apply Dr. Covey's habits of successful people. An apt title to be sure, because everyone is obsessed. Dear Ms. Helen Hardt, I toss many profanities your way for making me wait. I need to know what the secrets are Jade Roberts is in love with Talon Steel but no longer welcome in his home.

Talon and his brothers are hiding something, and Jade is determined to find out what it is. The moment Talon saw Jade he wanted her, ached for her, craved her…and now his desire has become his obsession. If he and Jade are to have a future, he knows he must make peace with the dark shadows and horrors of his past. Meet Talon. Talon Steel. Helen exceeded every expectation I had for this book. It was heart pounding, heartbreaking, intense, full throttle genius. Helen Hardt has truly blown me away with this series.

It is dark, emotional, intense, horrifying, and utterly beautiful all mixed together. To that end, she continues her investigation of the Steels…and unknowingly attracts some dangerous foes from their shrouded history. Talon loves Jade deeply and longs to possess her forever, so he faces his worst fears and exposes his rawest wounds in an attempt to heal. What's a man to do when the one who got away comes roaring back into his life, working smack dab next to him in the same office? But when captivating, brilliant, sexy as sin Sloane issues me a challenge -- make her purr like no man has done before -- I don't say no.

Hardt has continued to weave her web in this installment, and the results are every bit as good…or perhaps better…than what we have seen so far. With every answer, there is another question. That is definitely a proper name for this book. Not only did I melt many times while reading it, I also went up in flames. Jonah Steel is intelligent, rich, and hard-working. As the oldest of his siblings, he was charged by his father to protect them. Melanie Carmichael has her own baggage. As Melanie and Jonah attempt to work through their issues together, desperately trying to ignore the desire brewing between them, ghosts from both their pasts surface…and danger draws near.

Ice Knights defenseman Zach Blackburn has come down with the flu, and my BFF—his PR manager—begs me to put my nursing degree to use and get him back to health. Of course she would call in a favor for the most hated man in Harbor City. Paparazzi spot me and pictures, plus accusations that I slept with him, fly faster than a hockey puck. At first, all of Harbor City wants my blood—or to give me a girlie-girl makeover. But then And now this fickle town wants me with the big jerk twenty-four seven.

I never slept with him the first time! But no one will listen. Account Options Sign in. Top charts. New arrivals. See more. Lisa M. The plant profiles in Midwest Foraging include clear, color photographs, identification tips, guidance on how to ethically harvest, and suggestions for eating and preserving.

A handy seasonal planner details which plants are available during every season. Michael Straczynski. Michael Straczynski is joined by Andy Kubert and the legendary Joe Kubert to take flight with the gadget-savvy vigilante known as Nite Owl! For Dr. Manhattan, past, present, and future are one and the same. But as he observes the events of his life, do they remain the same? Or are they changed? The very fact of his existence may have altered the nature of what will or will not be The Interestings: A Novel. Meg Wolitzer. With this book [Wolitzer] has surpassed herself. The Interestings secures Wolitzer's place among the best novelists of her generation.

She's every bit as literary as Franzen or Eugenides. But the very human moments in her work hit you harder than the big ideas. This isn't women's fiction. It's everyone's. The summer that Nixon resigns, six teenagers at a summer camp for the arts become inseparable. Decades later the bond remains powerful, but so much else has changed.

In The Interestings, Wolitzer follows these characters from the height of youth through middle age, as their talents, fortunes, and degrees of satisfaction diverge. The kind of creativity that is rewarded at age fifteen is not always enough to propel someone through life at age thirty; not everyone can sustain, in adulthood, what seemed so special in adolescence. Jules Jacobson, an aspiring comic actress, eventually resigns herself to a more practical occupation and lifestyle. Her friend Jonah, a gifted musician, stops playing the guitar and becomes an engineer.

The friendships endure and even prosper, but also underscore the differences in their fates, in what their talents have become and the shapes their lives have taken. Wide in scope, ambitious, and populated by complex characters who come together and apart in a changing New York City, The Interestings explores the meaning of talent; the nature of envy; the roles of class, art, money, and power; and how all of it can shift and tilt precipitously over the course of a friendship and a life. Saving Meghan: A Novel.

Saving Meghan is a riveting new thriller full of secrets and lies from author D. Can you love someone to death? The Marriage Betrayal: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist. Shalini Boland. And then the unthinkable happens… Her husband Jake and her six-year-old son Dylan go for an early morning walk along the beautiful, windswept clifftops.

And just how far will a mother go to save her only child? Going After Cacciato. Tim O'Brien. Winner of the National Book Award, Going After Cacciato captures the peculiar mixture of horror and hallucination that marked this strangest of wars. In a blend of reality and fantasy, this novel tells the story of a young soldier who one day lays down his rifle and sets off on a quixotic journey from the jungles of Indochina to the streets of Paris.

In its memorable evocation of men both fleeing from and meeting the demands of battle, Going After Cacciato stands as much more than just a great war novel. Ultimately it's about the forces of fear and heroism that do battle in the hearts of us all. Ashley Bell: A Novel. Dean Koontz. The girl who said no to death. Bibi Blair is a fierce, funny, dauntless young woman—whose doctor says she has one year to live.

An enigmatic woman convinces Bibi that she escaped death so that she can save someone else. Someone named Ashley Bell. But save her from what, from whom? And who is Ashley Bell? Where is she? Here is an eloquent, riveting, brilliantly paced story with an exhilarating heroine and a twisting, ingenious plot filled with staggering surprises. Ashley Bell is a new milestone in literary suspense from the long-acclaimed master. Koontz stands alone, and this novel is a prime example of literary suspense.

One of his best. When a writer has managed to catch this kind of lightning in a bottle, every reader should experience the full jolt. The Secret Mother: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you hooked. This is one book you have to read and it gets 5 huge stars from me!!!! Not anymore. After contacting the police, Tessa is suspected of taking the mystery child. Her whole life is turned upside down. Because someone is lying. To find out who, she must confront her painful past. But is the truth more dangerous than Tessa realises?

An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller with a twist that will make you wonder if you can ever trust anyone again. What a fantastic book! What a read! I loved this book A fantastic thriller! What a thrilling ride! The end was incredible. Really, honestly, pick up this one. This is one of those books! I totally recommend. One of the best psychological thrillers I have read! Life in a Medieval Castle. Joseph Gies.

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From acclaimed historians Frances and Joseph Gies comes the reissue of this definitive classic on medieval castles, which was a source for George R. Ghost Fleet is a page-turning imagining of a war set in the not-too-distant future. Navy captains battle through a modern-day Pearl Harbor; fighter pilots duel with stealthy drones; teenage hackers fight in digital playgrounds; Silicon Valley billionaires mobilize for cyber-war; and a serial killer carries out her own vendetta. Ultimately, victory will depend on who can best blend the lessons of the past with the weapons of the future. But what makes the story even more notable is that every trend and technology in book—no matter how sci-fi it may seem—is real.

This is not just an excellent book, but an excellent book by those who know what they are talking about. Prepare to lose some sleep. Marine Corps. Free sneak peeks. Donna Tartt. A young New Yorker grieving his mother's death is pulled into a gritty underworld of art and wealth in this "extraordinary" and beloved Pulitzer Prize winner that "connects with the heart as well as the mind" Stephen King, New York Times Book Review.

Theo Decker, a year-old New Yorker, miraculously survives an accident that kills his mother. Abandoned by his father, Theo is taken in by the family of a wealthy friend. Bewildered by his strange new home on Park Avenue, disturbed by schoolmates who don't know how to talk to him, and tormented above all by a longing for his mother, he clings to the one thing that reminds him of her: a small, mysteriously captivating painting that ultimately draws Theo into a wealthy and insular art community.

Fun, easy, inexpensive, and great for sharing. The one who pulls the trigger, The slave who builds the pyramid. That erects their monuments, makes the gas chamber, Chops all the trees. The brand-new crusaders In shiny shoes and stylish suits, with briefcases. Filled with matching obituaries and other paper Craft. They will handle you. They take care of everything.

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The moment they put you into the good shredder,. Thousands of acres are deforested. Home is where the hearth is Home is where the heart is Home is where the earth is Home is where the art is Home is where the ear is Home is where all these exist in harmony. But can someone please tell me where… My home is? She had no notion what they meant, But added, At least they are names… Not numbers like 46th, 50th, 8th, 4th and fist.

I ask if she has sex She smiles, through a blush and says yes! Impaired judgments That destroyed nations Or sometimes built them Could be blamed equally on sex Not as often on wine! But killing, at any age, seems fine. Mother lived her life like this pen Beautifully wrapped in its original box, Never stained with ink, Waiting for the day, when a special occasion Would warrant its use. That pen, she never used.

That special day must have come. I her extension, am using it To refer to her unlived life, Like this unused pen. Mother, you lived for me. You kept this pen for me. Can I in turn live for both of us? By the pathway stretching out to the infinite I meet the crowd that passes me by Uncaringly, even through me— Smashing the bones of my soul under its feet. Could it be they spotted— grand as crucifixion— The peculiar mystery of hanging oneself, After a treacherous kiss? It had slipped my mind the way I soar when they're plucking my wounds, caressing and caressing me you could give my straw dog to another, as a gift.

That's why my eyes are wet. It didn't cross my mind that a girl with eyes of yours could trade my love for a pin. That's why I feel for my hobby-horse. Now I remember remember how you told me one time you were going to give All your love to Only me I remember That's why I can't stop cracking up.

You have no love At all. My hands flying a hempseed morning like a pickpocket's borrowed leg no easy chair for the flood my eyes running a dog's grief. Poet is my title with wild shoesAgain, I found tears on my face this morning How could you be sure it wouldn't happen again? When you hang up your reflection vanishes from the glass.

There are scores of wheels—conceited outcasts, They come scurrying and scurrying they race… All they leave behind is this grubby dust, And these glutinous trails upon my face. I got along to know the Good and the Bad, But alas, no Peace came down on my soul; The third one, Infinity, the dark autocrat, Is shifting their places and keeping control. There are no more Mysteries left on earth; And the Life itself is one authentic Lie. The Ideas are depressing and adverse, And the Matter Matter! All, all bears the bitter leer of the Unknown, All, assuming on and within itself.

Everything remains half-way, incomplete, Turning into dust in its name and eyes. I entered this world through a nameless door, And I found myself—right off — in the Light; Could not I have stayed here just a little more? I turned—and the door was locked up downright. I listened—there was nothing I could hear, Nothing except the beating of my heart… Driven, I measured the Bottomless in here, I walked to and fro—met only my part.

Centuries of Hope passed me by and went. Still I am standing before Infinity. A waking Memory still calls in the distance, Even now untamed for the flows of Time… I must have had another Existence; I must have been living a posthumous life. From the day I was born , a radiant Halo, Along with the Dream, has decreed the brith Of an enormous and purifying Love— Stretching out from soul to the Universe.

It is gleaming still—in quiet isolation; Never troubled by the clamor of Life, With its bubbly zeal of copied Regulations, And the vehemence of Pain and Delight. It gives me the grief of Reconciliation Against all Temptation and Catastrophe, It offers me some Indifference so gracious Against all the losses that happened to me. I am, I shall be as long as it glows, Till this spacious World—darkling—collides. I know that, for me, there will come the day When a gloomy Time will explode at once; I shall be alone against the World again, And my cherished Hopes will roughly collapse.

The wordless fantom of entirety That I have cherished in my heart and flesh, Will pour on my face its chilly sarcasm— And I will perceive my Death in a flash. When Mind woke, my soul turned to be a rebel, Weaving in the air a ghost of Innocence; Life formed an endless Beginning—dishevelled, As an atonement for Fate and common sense.

Each and every second I was waiting for Some Wonder to glow with tremendous beams. Neither good nor bad, neither weak nor strong— Just a Man—a Man! Alas, I did not find him anywhere. Here I am again, empty-handed, mislaid. Oh where can I be with my young Reverie! Time in and Time out, each and every day An invisible Wheel is turning round and round; Each tiny instant storms a Shaft of Ray, Revealing faces you can never count.

Are they different, or are they the same? What is the Writing on their foreheads now? There must be some place—no one knows the name, Still the Wheel is turning and turning somehow. Oh let the Wheel turn forever and ever; The sec of my life is motionless and dense… Hung over this chasm, I will endeavor To visualize my consecrated Self. All my Dreams, they glowed—vanished in the haze. Some dark evil Hand is forcing me down; Someone is trying to lead me astray— And a hideaway is nowhere to be found.

Justice betrayed me destroying my hopes, Freedom took away all my liberty, Truth just crippled me, still it blindly gropes, Peace redirected death sentence on me. It Was what was not, it was not what Would. I still carry my face, broken and bare. Till a distant Voice reached my ears one day, Like my first snivel at the hour of Birth… I opened my eyes to these chimes and rays, For the second time to be born on earth.

I can feel it now: how, cell by cell, my Sight, That used to be so blunt, shakes off all my Fears. Every single hand is yearning for its touch, Every single dream dreams it all forlorn— To reach it, acquire it, comprehend it—but They hurtle one by one and wane for evermore.


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I had an awful dream— sinister and grim: The whole Universe was crumbling like sand. Dust stormed everywhere, burying the myth Of the Good and Bad that no one understands. A light Melody was streaming up to me Out the smoldering ashes in the gloom; Oh it seemed to be the song of Harmony, For centuried I seemed to have desired the tune!

My heart is in a fever, for sleepless nights, perplexed, The World is pitiless, so gloomy and unreal. Seated on the throne of dark Mysteries, The unpunished Plot is feasting all day long. Oh where shall I flee from this nightmare and dread? All the doors are locked, all the ways are brittle. All my Hopes and Dreams now are lost in the mist. With a meaningless stare and a heart wholly emptied, Elevated and noble like Mount Ararat, Here I stand again—untroubled, untempted— Upon all the World is my shadow cast.

Here in my shadow, right under my feet, Life and Death play games. Love and Hate are battling for the only Seat. The Good and the Bad are stabbing each other. In my daily way of godly Non-existence, In my virtuous realms limitless and broad, I was generating some ethereal radiance, Lest I may be scared of the stifling Void. Suddenly a drop spilled out upon the Dark… In its dusky shade, I could clearly see The particulars of my corporeal face, And I lost myself—irrevocably. Am I just a Human, or a Godly Creature? Passions are flooding all around me again, Spilling Desire, Affliction, and Curse.

And I always feel, fixed upon my face, Some shadowy Stare—so sneering and cold. I can see my Hopes are dying again, I can see my Fears are gaining control. Suddenly a vague Memory is born, And I stop to watch, in this brutal Pain… Some invisible captivating Force Tears myself from me and carries me away.

Standing in grief, looking way too far, Estranged from myself, and strange to my life, I shall disappear one day in the dark, It will seem, however, I am still alive. The Dark seemed to be left far far behind… I AM! Whatever may come or may go… The whole Universe is following my mind; I am to decide if it lives or dies.

Here my Life proceeds exhausted and upset, And I follow him—maybe always will. Life seems to me to be an enormous Eye, The whole Universe subsisting in its Gaze.

Each time it opens and closes the eye, Darkness descends and covers all in haze. The Evil is filled with more evilness, And the Good assumes goodness immortal. While I am groping always between them But I never reach the consecrated portal. The Sea was static. Some serene Numbness had descended— blemished And tranquil like a Dream.

A great Mystery was flowing. The Sea was motionless, and faint; My soul was screaming furiously— Pointless, futile, and drained…. The Sea was hushed, deserted. Only sands— sizzling and thick. Was dying. A wave came up, in the distance. Nothing was left. A nameless fire ignited In the waning eyes, as to change. Was it a shriek that it heard Of a memory remote and single? It screamed then, this expiring bird With the falling miasma to mingle. I think of you again, and watch the cigarette extinguish against the hardened chewed up gum you left behind.

That which was once salivated full of your spit give it brief heat while killing what usually kills me. I picked up the dead rat with metal smelting tongs, by the tall. It ate the poison cookies. Greedy parasite of urbanity, greedy, poor, unwanted pet of production, roaming through the junked up shadows You are dead. I pick you up with the tools of my And I drop you into a ziplock bag and deposit you with the rest of the that putrefies — that was once animate, that had something.

Poison cookies for the greedy bastards. This is a very familiar phenomena III. La Traviata pours through the rain soaked windows as you drive away from yourself. Seek out a plausible past, seek out a plausible future in between the real places you go, in between all the things you make yourself do. In between, your career oriented formal wear and calculated, from young men weaned on music videos and sexual objectification, Frank Capra Movies, and detective shows In between, you revel in your car.

Even oblivious to the iconic meanings of rain and La Traviata and driving. Maybe this obsession for self oppression explains a similar tendency towards sadomasochism and bondage in your sexual life. Then, again, it may not. IV I pick you up by the with smelting tongs, out of my ashtray,along with Mastiki gum and extinguished cigarette butts — used self destructive consumer.

Items and you. You hate it, but you re dead. And, in your own vicious circular way, you ask for more, Moaning, assuming a Lordosis position, asking that I grip the tongs even harder. I hear this as I hear your La Traviata in the rain. I drive you away this time into a plastic zip loch bag and place you on the heap with the rat and the other things that were once animate. Scenic routes and the rumbling trees a transient sight, an ephemeral green something rustles underneath across the bank of gray a tinge of red and mammalian breath riding the hard concrete "a smudge on glass?

Perfection wasted. Internet cafe, on-line gaming. E-mail fantasies, chat room chidings. Children playing the killing games. A nation of video warriors. Haig and Pel gone to hell Even now, while they yell and scream and crawl toward this new addiction. One sticks out, barely attached to the neck. Der Zor reminiscence, Baku beckonings, chalk dust deserts and bad cappucino from the Russian Nescafe machine. Webs now weaving nets, catching prey praying, microcosms merging. Cancering lungs filling centurian gaps, with blood and guts. Marlboro, Coca Cola, hook noses, hairy chests, black jackets, sweaters, pointy shoes, and the sound of ash.

The world was conquered by addiction, not by arms. The wars are just to keep the junkies busy. Hatchet job. Handle to the ax. Evolution my ass. Shut down the satellite, see what happens. Try to get to sleep, see what happens. See the streets fill with blood, living and dead. Shut down the box, cut off the sugar drip, let the stranger in, see the blood flow into the dead head and watch a world realize how it has been duped. Sending mail on LA time, for LA time, doing time again, on my own time and yours. Long lost revolutionaries now alcoholics, yoga serenity souffled, tofu tarts and pseudo-vegetarians selling their asses for a nickel or a crime or a remodeled kitchen And the 7 or 8 young men, now, at 2 in the morning at the internet club, with me in the corner — me, still strapped old man — working dimestore metaphysic short cons for a love gone sour These children, with headsets cradling their ancient skulls, crackling songs along their immense noggins, they are oblivious to their own voluminous yelling.

And they are still oblivious to all this blood Oblivious to the barbed wire and explosions two blocks away, to their brothers running through the park as the truncheons come down. Maybe some ascots, too, Tamar, to cover When in doubt, accesorize. Wash it down with fire hoses and bring in the clowns. Rencom Internet Cafe, Apovian and Moskovian.

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The dialogue is familiar, the setting is frighteningly absurd. Sniper to the left!! Who is that? The immediacy, the drawl, the Armenian slurring, bloating into Karabakh dialect, orders, firing, shouted out. This progeny of war, our consequences, the horror of peace. Now, their screens scream-viscera, masturbatoria, simulacrum-with smoke and sugar and repressed sexuality, with distended introjected icons and fragments of overdetermined meaning It has got them and, now, me by the balls.

An interim that may never end and will never be filled, no matter how many cafes are built around Opera Square or how loud the music blares I am a cultural adoption agency — orphan and orphanage, both. Your world of senior citizen salad bar brawls are so much cotton candy and suburban lawns. This time I damn you all for selling your grandparents bones so cheaply at your own garage sales and trying to buy them back at the Vernissage. This time around — 3rd tour — 1 damn you because you damned yourselves.

This time, I will tell you about the hatchet job in Budapest and all the ax murders in Yerevan. In the empty cage of autumn, there are yellow feathers—bloodstained and scattered, bloodstained feathers—the whole thing;. And everything was lost, irrevocably. Fan-like, in the rhythm of a phoenix, I, your tenant, die and resurrect— like some cannon fodder beneath your colors, like a leech sucking in your vein. Like a mule, I carry dutifully your rusty past, my sweet scrap, yet my only body is being torn apart—.

My life weighs nothing on your scales; I did lose my single life, And I forgive you, my single country. Go ahead, take it, enjoy it already. Kiss me and See how the moths and rust have gnawed away at the piles of my hidden treasures, my lovely clothes, my sparkling jewellery, my erudite books. And the thieves have broken in through the wall and stolen my money. But your kiss will never get rusty, your kiss will break through the Chinese wall of my anguish.

Oh, how luscious and sensual are the lips of my love! Mother, what should I do? Should I fondle it with my warm fingertips? Should I tickle it with the moist roughness of my tongue? Should I stroke and caress the rigid stalk and allow it into my love camp? I got it for free and give it for free, this body of mine that fell to my lot, that I won in an earthly lottery. Unlock my property with your middle finger, strip the words of their weightless clothes, enter my boat with a naked heart, and drop your anchor in the bay of my body The foxes always have burrows, all the birds of the sky — their nests, my body and I are your burrow and nest come live inside me, my love, your body weighs light and sweet on me.

So, drive your muscle-made carriage, govern me, with a thin, leathern, thin, fine, thin strap guide the untamed course of our passion, brand my hips with your stamp, plant your flag in me. I am a wild river, I am a tight cluster, I am fragile air Enter my stream hide there inside me, and inhale and exhale me, and inhale and exhale me, and inhale and exhale me, and deeply inhale me, ah, now exhale, ah, exhale How sweet it is to take you inside me, my love coach, my brazen pillowmate, nobody better has ever been bom of a woman Blessed is my belly that has shivered from the touch of your tongue, blessed are my nipples that have hardened from the touch of your tongue blessed am I, the servant of the Lord, for I was blessed among women.

Whoever has eyes, let them see this enchanting picture — two intertwined bodies, prostrate on a sheet, a woven bouquet, a lily in bloom, an opening seashell, a sea-saw in swing. Merry wind, my happy companion, rock my boat, my fearless sailor, my reckless adventurer, rock my boat, rock me, until I expire entirely, until I finally run out on my own, until I stop on my own, rock me until I reach there — the NO PLACE Oh, what ecstasy! Guide me through the labyrinths of my body like this, step by step, word by word, detail by detail, pause by pause, kisses and kisses, movement by movement, kisses and kisses, sound by sound, and kisses and kisses.

Take me and lead me over the threshold of my body, take me to the house of rapture Like this, one more step, like this, one more movement, on a snow-white. Here is the body surrendered to death. Here is the blood that has faltered and stopped forever. Oh, what a desolate feast, what festive mourning, and our hearts are aching inside. He took on our illnesses, expunged all our pains, this Son of Man, he raised us from the dead, Oh, see how the humans have ensnared you in death! Until you ran yourself out, Until you stopped yourself, And now our hearts are burning within us.

We know that whoever does the will of your heavenly father is your brother and sister and mother. And we weep here like mothers, mourn you like sisters, we bow our heads to our sorrows, like brothers. But we also mourn for ourselves. How can we comfort ourselves? Many have touched and soothed us with a virtual kiss, but it is not the same as the comfort you offered; Many have caressed and pitied us with a virtual hand, but it is not the same as the sympathy you gave us. Oh, if you could only return in flesh, as our relative and as our friend, to touch and trust our bodies, to touch our open wounds, and kiss away the pain So how can we not mourn you and shed tears over your body?

For you were the Savior! The shackles of death have chained you to the prison of your cold body — for a three-day repose And when we see the cheap blade approaching, we stammer, we pale, we shiver, and inside us, our hearts sink, and inside us, our thoughts get blurry and inside us, our stomachs turn, and inside us, our mouths go dry. We run to our room, lock the doors, hide inside ourselves Before the blade we are barefoot and naked, our asses are bare and our necks are bowed. But you — step by step, but you — word by word, detail by detail, pause by pause, unflinchingly walked towards death, stepped over the threshold and entered the kingdom of your beloved father.

Our Savior! Caress us like a mother, give us hope like a sister, and lead us by our hand,. Like this, one more step, like this, one more movement. She simply went away. Flowers in my ears blooming, blooming so I can't hear a damn thing. I pluck them out as fast as I can but they come so fast and soft I decide to be a vase. You will say I am spoiled, yet you know nothing of water, of tea leaves, of cows or bees. They come to me with their lives and I put them together. It is against loneliness and it warms my belly. Lend me a hand, my dears and nears, I have run out of my wine in the cup of my three and thirty years.

I built my house on the foothill The mountain gave way And I am homeless, now. To write about love is equal to paying for the chill and the dark, the famine, as well as friends who have died with us in the bed of stamina during three months. To write about love is equal to re-writing about an excessive attenuation of the poetized burgeoning of the wind, spring, cloud, flower, bird, light, autumn, and the color of leaves. To write about love is equal to noticing all the particulars of the plummet of the SELF— to put then down for the sake of generations to come.

To write about love is equal to sketching a teapot, another teapot, smaller, still a smaller one— a teapot dreamed by an off-the-wall artist. The springs from our hearts flow down through stones, water runs out as ice near headwaters at nights. When fish narrate me the unutterable, a nameless bliss is embracing me, but waters wreck my heart. One should have enough reality to the point of killing Diana to comprehend the edges Translated by the author.

The morale is curiosity kills the angel, sometimes. Between my enter and exit the scene is petrifying me with airless space. It leaves the fruit alone to become fully grown. Armenia is a country where someone is always crying. Women punch in and out on the clock, grieving in shifts. White handkerchiefs flutter in their careworn hands. The Armenian orphans have oversized heads and eyes the color of bitter chocolate. They don't complain about the harshest winter.

They are grateful for the same dull food. In their faded uniforms, they sing off-key for visitors. Cher, who was born Cherilyn Sarkisian, travelled to Armenia where she wore a scarf and kept the tattoos covered. She visited the orphans, and brought them Barbie dolls. She said she would star in Forty Days of Musa Dagh. I want to direct a bio-pic of Commander Avo, Cher's distant cousin, who died a "freedom fighter" in Karabagh. The camera, the handkerchief, the rifle, the massacres, Monte dead in Artsakh, a shrapnel wound to the head.

Plum blossoms, apricots, we will make a picnic under the trees, fresh bread, madzoon, cheese, garden greens. Children will race through the grass, and when the sun goes down the field will be lit by the moon and a thousand fireflies. The men drink raki , and sing: A person dies only once, but fortunate is the one who dies for the freedom of his people. Are there fireflies in Armenia? Do the women edge their handkerchiefs with lace? Armenia is a country in my body, the right side only because I'm half-Armenian.

I choose it -my imaginary homeland, my handkerchief, my name. In this dream you walk past the school's sheared facade; from their desks the children call and wave. A teacher points at a map of Armenia. You wake to another dream of soot-stained faces around a fire fueled by broken chairs. You wish the earth would swallow the rows of coffins in the playing field. The living. You should have been the hand God reaching into the school -- the children. But instead they line up to write their names in the book at heaven's door.

Beirutine roses dot Islamic arches Peacock curves and serpentine roads Medieval monastery and orange baked church tops Smog fuming strong from exhaust pipes escaping Over mile-long lighted bridge Named after a President long gone. Orthodox men with smart doe-eyed women Weave past garish blue modernist bus depot Dominican muscles strain under tight cotton mesh The smell of arroz con pollo, shaved ice mango and street vendor incense.

An Armenian church, parishioners long-gone, stands guard on West th Street. Chinese and Iranian medical students, books in hand Ghosts that you can barely detect anymore Whisper secrets nonetheless. Biblical Babel rose to the skies, punishment from God But here babble is like a paradise lost Singing its sweet immigrant songs: a promise. Lebanon They came Refugees all the same. Into the woods I go Full of hope, full of dope. I will not fast I will not slow Just as I want I go.

I do not know many things As I pull lightly on my silver ringsVincennes is what? Mixobarbarians at the gate Carrying take-out fusion Diasporan specials, hold the curry More kim chi please Divided souls, fifth columnists Guilt-ridden BMW stick shifters One eye eastward the other West. Up five games to zero in the third as I watch nervously How I wish to be truly American and blond like she Every fiber of my body aches and wants to kiss the very ground she walks on.

Martina is a sister Gay as a picnic basket, pink as a rubyfruit jungle. And as she finally takes the lead, it all comes out: The Marxist-Chrissie-hating-American-bashing. The shame of it almost makes me scream because Hana is Czech and the Czechs are behind the iron curtain and so are Armenians so we must love her over Chrissie even after the tanks have rolled into Prague.

And their names are hard to pronounce too so we must feel kinship, empathize. At five games to six, my father can barely contain himself. He jumps out of his seat As if he were at a World Cup final Knocking over his madzoon and plate of pilaf. My son! Look, Hana is going to spill the milk! Apple pie and Chevrolet is about to win the Open again Sputnik and the commies can go to Hades. No metaphors or fancy turns-of-phrases required. Vahe Oshagan. The inability to understand What it is that we are searching for.

East and West, Old and New Opposites stripped of meaning Grasping for a past that constantly eludes us. A prophet from Edessa, a giant from Moush Nomads sprung from desert and rock, Traveling backwards through Cilician time Mourning for memories We try to suppress. And always the yearning For something we cannot ever reach. We always like to steal a little memory dad said with a smile and so we had a collection of stolen things in my childhood the memory of them coming back to me at the oddest moments sticking to me like the humid nights in New Jersey.

IV memories seeped into the pink-flowered wallpaper in your bedroom the touch of his hands only a memory of the wind now and his kisses maybe the saliva from your lips dripping. VI I could play this game forever but for you whose memory has trailed back as if the world lived in reverse and rain could go back up to the sky memory lost in you is different than new memory gained by a child VII we live in between those two worlds watching the world lose watching the world gain life in ourselves.

I peered at them one by one their wings disintegrating into the afternoon light: their huge black eyes staring back at me, motionless, and without a sound: wispy skeletons that had grown silent on the leaves of my red-flowered cactus and my purple geranium. How silent we can become. You choose exile; Exile is not a fruit that grows old And falls from a sad yellow tree. Exile is not a manna that falls from the sky No matter how much it wears out, You feel that it is renewed in you and you feel it sowing seeds in your eyes. Exile opens new roads, New untidy chambers, Rooms filled with dirty plates, And badly ironed shirts, An empty can of caviar!

And a cursing neighbourExile has no cafes, where good old friends are lost Especially literary friends! And those who write Do so for their own satisfaction Sonya with her old pains, Sevan and his green hopes, Koorken with his poetic nostalgia, Manoyan and his doubts. Exile Where Ishkhan Jinbashian writes but only About his daily silence!

Vahe is busy most of the time And never writes about your exile His answers are short Only one line. And the old poets who took your address And promised to answer in your exile! Friends far from me. Exile Where my students Are near me. A deep endless exile Which leads you to a new perfection Where you can wash your dirty plates Your green nostalgia Exile. This guy he slapped me first. You're dead! I tell him. You're finished! I tell him, You're dead, remember this.

Then he slaps me again. Then, another smack. Look here, I tell him, you're dead. I had ogled his chick but you see maybe that's the way I look at the world. You're dead, I tell him, Another time You'll look for me, bro, and won't find me.

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He doesn't take breath to hear me. Hey bro, don't look in my eyes! I was squawking, man. Still on my feet. He was kicking me by now. Poor sucker. His aiding brigade arrives. Now they're hitting me from all sides.


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