ERYKAH BADU

BAHNHOFSTRASSE

.....
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish expatriate author of the 20th century. He is known for his landmark novel Ulisses (1922) and its controversial successor Finnegans Wake(1939), as well as the shor storycollection Dubliners (1914) and the semi-autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916).
Although he spent most of his adult life outside Ireland, Joyce's psychological and fictional universe is firmly rooted in his native Dublin, the city which provides the settings and much of the subject matter for all his fiction. In particular, his tempestuous early relationship with the Irish Roman Catholic Churchis reflected through a similar inner conflict in his recurrent alter ego Stephen Dedalus . As the result of his minute attentiveness to a personal locale and his self-imposed exile and influence throughout Europe notably i n Paris, Joyce paradoxically became one of the most comospolitan yet one of the most regionally focused of all the English Language writers of his time

Alone

The noon's greygolden meshes make

All night a veil,

The shorelamps in the sleeping lake

Laburnum tendrils trail.

The sly reeds whisper to the night

A name-- her name

And all my soul is a delight,

A swoon of shame.

Bahnhofstrasse

The eyes that mock me sign the way

Whereto I pass at eve of day.

Grey way whose violet signals are

The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! star of pain!

Highhearted youth comes not again

Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know

The signs that mock me as I go.

Be Not Sad

Be not sad because all men

Prefer a lying clamour before you:

Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -

Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears;

Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.

Proudly answer to their tears:

As they deny, deny.

LAS NINÃS - SONG OF THE SILLY GIRLS

MERCEDES ROFFÉ

Mercedes Roffé is one of Argentina’s contemporary leading poets. Widely published in Latin America and Spain, her poetry has also been published in translation in Italy, Quebec, Romania, Belgium, and the United States. In 1998 she founded Pen Press, Plaquettes de Poesía, a successful tiny press dedicated to the publication of contemporary Spanish-language poets as well as poets of other languages in Spanish translation. She holds a diploma in Modern Languages from the University of Buenos Aires, and a Ph.D. in Spanish and Latin American Literatures from New York University. Among other distinctions, she was awarded a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship in poetry (2001).

Song of the Silly Girls ------Las Ninãs

(Codex Calixtinus)

*

a round

a round of little girls

tired

messy

sad girls

*
a recess of judicious

industrious

little girls

an ode to obedience and good

will

good

manners

*

the girls repeat the sound

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

the girls repeat the sound

oooooooooo

then some girls hold the

mmmmmm

like the pedal of a harmonium

while the rest melodize

*

it seems that they were told

to shut up

to sing

very softly

as if in petticoats

*

--I love freedom

--one says, making a bird

face

and spreading her arms wide

--me too

--says the other

locking herself in her room

*

there are two who are unbearable

and their voices are much shriller

than the others´

*

--Remember the calligrapher?

The one who spilled her inkwell

over your dress?

--nope.

*

a round

a round of exhausted

lifeless

girls

a recess of shadows

an angle

sliding

along the wall

TeorÍa de los Colores

(del libro La ópera fantasma.

Buenos Aires, Bajo la luna, 2005)

OSCILO 1

Tanja Vujinovic (Tatjana Vujinović Kušej) is a visual and sound artist born in 1973 in ex-Yugoslavia.
Education2006 - to present Faculty of Humanities Koper, University of Primorska. Slovenia — postgraduate studies in Philosophy and Theory of Visual Culture.1994 -1999

Faculty of Fine Arts, (Gordan Nikolic/Momo Antonovic class), Belgrade, Serbia —

Bachelors Degree, 1999.1998 - 1999 Kunstakademie Duesseldorf (Jan Dibbets class), Duesseldorf, Germany — Guest Student.198Tanja Vujinovic

http://www.exstat.org/video-sound-works_files/Oscilo-DOE507.swf

Oscilo consists of objects which each provide a different kind of sound by means

of touching or moving objects that contain pick-up microphones, miniature sound

producing devices, or loudspeakers. The length and intensity of the tactile contact

affect the audio signals produced.

ODE TO A LARGE TUNA IN THE MARKET

Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market



Among the market greens,
a bullet
from the ocean
depths,
a swimming
projectile,
I saw you,
dead.


All around you
were lettuces,
sea foamof the earth,
carrots,
grapes,
but
of the ocean
truth,
of the unknown,
of the
unfathomable
shadow, the
depths
of the sea,
the abyss,
only you had survived,
a pitch-black,
varnished
witness
to deepest night.


Only you, well-aimed
dark bullet
from the abyss,
mangled
at one tip,
but constantly
reborn,
at anchor in the current,
winged fins
windmilling
in the swift
flight
of
the
marine
shadow,
a mourning arrow,
dart of the sea,
olive, oily fish.
I saw you dead,
a deceased king
of my own ocean,
green
assault, silver
submarine fir,
seed
of seaquakes,
now
only dead remains,
yet
in all the market
yours
was the only
purposeful form
amid
the bewildering rout
of nature;
amid the fragile greens
you were
a solitary ship,
armedamong the vegetables
fin and prow black and oiled,
as if you were still
the vessel of the wind,
the one and only
pure
ocean
machine:
unflawed, navigating
the waters of death.


Pablo Neruda

In tribute to Franz who was looking for him at the bottom of the sea ... Franz was buried in the waters of the Ocean after his early death due to kidneys disease .

MUSICAL RHYTHM

Khien Yimsiri

Musical Rhythm, 1949,

Bronze, 55 x 38 x 38 cm.

Khien Yimsiri1922-1971
born in Bangkok
graduated from Silpakorn University, Bangkok/Academy of Fine Arts of Rome, Italy
Khien Yimsiri was among Professor Silpa Bhirasri's first students and has taken an immense interest in Thai art and cultural education. He was one of the first to influence the direction of development in contemporary art in Thailand.
.
Khien benefited greatly from education and extensive travel abroad, particularly during 1949 when he spent a year in England studying sculpture at Chelsea School of Art in London under the guidance of world renowned sculptor, Henn. Moore. He also spent two years in Italy studying sculpture and art history (1953-1954).
The character of Khien Yimsiri's modern traditional sculptures differ completely from his realistic sculptures. In fact, the beauty of line, volume and shape that is intrinsic in the Buddha images of Sukothai School has made a very deep impression on Khien Yimsiri. His study and research about art in this era helps him to acquire a profound understanding of the timeless beauty in Buddha images.
Apart from his remarkable sculpture Musical Rhythm (1946), Land of Smile (195O) was one of his masterpieces. This work of art was very important because it not only received a gold medal in 195O, but it was also representative of Thai people, peaceful people with generous hearts.

Music from Thailand & Laos - Lak Paed Song

Music from Thailand & Laos - Mekong River Song

Found at bee mp3 search engine
Embed Code

	Music from Thailand & Laos - Mekong River Song
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

TERESA QUEIROZ

From Lisbon Portugal we received the invitation the talented Teresa Queiroz to the launch of his book .Sure will be a success!

GUIDO BOGGIANI

The milanese Guido Boggiani (1861-1901) of the northern italian society, journalist, pianist and painter, awarded with very important prizes . Very praised by the great italian poet and writer , Gabrielle D'Annunzio, adventured whit him to the Greek Islands. On a very luxury yacht which sailed them, Boggiani portrayed the classic ruins, at the time that he was being introduced to the mysteries of a new born art, the photography. Boggiani has passed away at he age of 40, at the Chaco(PAraguay), with his skull cracked by an indian stone ax. After being deadly wounded, he was decapitated, as a way of the impeding his soul to make witchcrafts, according to an indian belief. Almost an year passed till an italo-paraguayan mission found his bones

HOT LINE

Parveen Shakir (1952 – 1994), author of Khushboo, Sad-Barg, Khud-Kalami, and Mah-e-Tamam, is one of the most popular poets in Pakistan. All her verse is written in Urdu and, along with other women poets of her generation, she was responsible for developing a new expression for women’s poetry in Pakistan.



A Message

It’s the same weather.
The rain’s laughter
rings in the trees, echoes.
Their green branches
wear golden flowers
and smile thinking of someone.
The breeze is a scarf, again the light-pink.
The path to the garden that knows us
is looking for us.The moment of moon-rise
is waiting for us.


Hot Line


How he used to complain to me!
So many people
come between us
we cannot talk.
In the season’s first rain,
first snow,
full-moon nights,
evening’s mild fragrance,
morning’s blue cool,
how helpless!
How the heart aches!



Today between him and me
there is no third
There can be contac
with a slight movement of the hand.
But how many seasons have passed
since hearing that voice.
It is not hard for me to call upon him,
but the truth isthe voices and the accents
do not have the same tone
The tune is the same but the hearts
are not close enough.



translated by Alamgir Hashmi

THE HAND OF DISAPPEARING

The Hand Of Disappearing

Every Time he puts his hand

On a spot of shadow

Shadow leaps

And dress it a glove.

Which way do you prefer her:

To be with you

Thinking of someone else

or to be

with someone else

thinking of you?

like a sleeping human

Dreaming that he is

sleeping beast dreaming that he is

sleeping human.

He doesn’t write

About her

on paper

he throws himself

on her

paper after paper.

You would love me the most:

when you lift up your hand
off me

I disappear.

Your hand

is the hand

of disappearing.

___________________________2/7/1995

Monzer Masri

Born, lived, wrote, loved..and so near to death! been in a very few places.. Kavala, Diar baker, Lodeve...Paris.. and Londen latly... to read poetry.. My favorite place is Beirut..

THE LONELY DREAMER

Émile Nelligan born in Montreal in 1879..
In 1896, published some of his first poems under the pseudonym "Émile Kovar." influenced by French poets as Verlaine and Baudelaire. His poems were unique and almost revolutionary in Quebec where patriotic and Romantic poetry reigned. He stressed the subjective impression, the power of words and the music of language. He wrote about nostalgia and melancholy, and the conflicts of being a poet.
In 1897, Nelligan joined the École littéraire de Montréal, a literary movement that sought to break free from the restrictive style of poetry that was so dominant in Quebec. At around this time, Nelligan's father tried to send him off to England as a Merchant Marine, unhappy with his son's choice of vocation. Nelligan continued to publish poems in local journals, and in 1898, he was readmitted into the École littéraire de Montréal, where he would often read his poems to the gathered crowd. In 1899, however, he was confined to an asylum due to mental illness. He died there in 1941.
In 1903, although only 23 of his poems had been published, Nelligan's friend Louis Dantin and his mother collected 107 poems and published them as Émile Nelligan et son oeuvre. .

............................................................................................................................

Depressed, inward-looking, sometimes closed in his small room on the second floor of 260 Avenue Laval, sometimes walking in the city center, Nelligan likes to attend Bonsecours walked and Jacques-Cartier, if stops at a church. We know few women in his entourage (Edith Larrivée, Idola Saint-Jean or Barry Robertine). It would, they say, lived a pastoral idyll with a Swiss German in the fall of 1895, but we do not know much, the same mystery surrounds some Gretchen in 1897. Women at Nelligan, sometimes real, sometimes fictional (artist, apparition, mythic allusion, negress lointaine) is beautifully embedded in the imagination. And above all the world dreams of love reflected in his poems, the portrait of his mother and the plans of St. Cecilia's fear of loving.

St. Cecilia" by John William Waterhouse (1895)

The Gold Vessel Le Vaisseau d’Or

Translated from the French by Loup Kibiloki

It was a massive Ship carved out of solid Gold,

Its masts reaching azure, she sailed on unknown

seas

With Aphrodite of love spreadeagled at the prow,

hair dishevelled and naked under excessive sun.

But it came that a night the ship struck the great reef

On treacherous Ocean where the Siren was heard.

The horrible shipwreck tilted the hull aslant

Deep down the abyss depth, immutable coffin.

It was a Gold Vessel. Her diaphanous sides

were revealing treasures that the secular crew,

Disgust and Neurosis, and Hatred, fought over.

What’s left of it under the brief abating storm?

What became of my heart, empty deserted ship?

Alas, it has sunk down in the abyss of Dream.

POINT LOBOS

Edward Weston

One of the true regenerative artist: an awakener of the eye and the evolving mind it serves. Regeneration was a quality that Weston brought to photography for more than three decades, defining both the limits and the generosities of his medium. Point Lobos was only one of his subjects, though he returned to it again and again, and took his last photograph there. His career spanned crucial years in American photography, and a restless pursuit of his art created a body of work that ranged over nudes, still lifes, industrial scenes, portraiture, landscape
In 1937 Weston became the first photographer to receive the prestigious Guggenheim Fellowship. For a year, he traveled around the western United States with Charis Wilson, creating large-scale landscapes, a subject he had not pursued in depth since his time in Mexico.

The grant was renewed in 1938, part of which Weston spent at his new residence in Carmel, developing and printing negatives made in the preceding months.Weston created some 1,400 negatives during this remarkably productive time, and his visual approach became increasingly expansive. His deliberate, methodical technique of the late 1920s and early 1930s, when he spent hours creating single still life arrangements in his studio, gave way to greater spontaneity and an embrace of diverse views. His frame now encompassed hills, valleys, and coastlines, not just the rocks and tree stumps found there. He directed his attention to less static subjects, incorporating moving elements such as breaking waves or drifting clouds. , and any other subject that touched his visual imagination

THE BLUE-WHITE GULLS

Among the Blue

Somehow I wish could say
it was indifference not love
that found the coordinates
for cormorants among the blue
the blue-white gulls

tell you that we have lived once
and will not come this way again

say to you that as long as art
teaches language of recovery
eternal reminders of morning
will grow on our sweat, spume,
tick softly on our lips, on our lips.

Gerry McGrath was born in Helensburgh, near Glasgow, in 1962 and studied at Strathclyde University before becominga teacher. He now lives in North Ayrshire with his wife, Kate, and young son, Liam. He worked as a teacher of modern languages for seven years until 2000. He received a Robert Louis Stevenson Memorial Award in2004. His poems have appeared in Edinburgh Review, Being Alive, in Painted, Spoken and in PN Review, and a selection were published in Carcanet's New Poetries IV: An Anthology (2007).

JIMÉNEZ DEREDIA

The Mystery of the Genesis

Jorge Jimenez Deredia is a universal artist, born in Costa Rica but Italian by adoption, an expert on the Renaissance and the first non-European in the new millennium to be asked to create a sculpture for St, Peter´s in Rome.

THE PATH OF SEA STARS

Romanian-born French poet and essayist known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.The Dadaist movement originated in Zürich during World War I; Tzara wrote the first Dada texts - La Premiére Aventure cèleste de Monsieur Antipyrine (1916; "The First Heavenly Adventure of Mr. Antipyrine") and Vingt-cinq poémes (1918; "Twenty-Five Poems") - and the movement's manifestos, Sept manifestes Dada (1924; "Seven Dada Manifestos"). In Paris he engaged in tumultuous activities with André Breton, Philippe Soupault, and Louis Aragon to shock the public and to disintegrate the structures of language. About 1930, weary of nihilism and destruction, he joined his friends in the more constructive activities of Surrealism. He devoted much of his time to the reconciliation of Surrealism and Marxism and joined the Communist Party in 1936 and the French Resistance movement during World War II. These political commitments brought him closer to his fellow human beings, and he gradually matured into a lyrical poet. His poems revealed the anguish of his soul, caught between revolt and wonderment at the daily tragedy of the human condition. His mature works started with L'Homme approximatif (1931; "The Approximate Man") and continued with Parler seul (1950; "Speaking Alone") and La Face intèrieure (1953; "The Inner Face"). In these, the anarchically scrambled words of Dada were replaced with a difficult but humanized language.

On the sea stars is among the most beautiful poetry ever written in French.

The poem fits into the "post-dadaïste" Tzara period.
dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorca.

Likely written towards the end of the years 1930s.

__The path of sea stars

Tristan Tzara poem_

What wind on the solitude of the world

so I remember human beings dearf

rail désolations aspirées by the death

beyond any heavy chasses time

the storm délectait to the nearest end

the sand is already arrondissait his hip lasts

but on the mountains of the pockets of fire

vidaient safe blows their prey light

blême and short such friend turns off

which person cannot say the words contour

and no appeal to the horizon has time to rescue

its measurable form only to his disappearance

and a Flash to another

the animal still tends his bitter rump

along the enemy centuries

through fields some parade other greed

and in its failure to profile the memory

as the wood that cracca in sign of presence

and of disparate need

There is also the fruit

and I am not forgetting the wheat

and the sweat gave them push monte throat

Yet we know the price of pain

the wings of oblivion and infinis drilling

at the underneath of life

words arriving to enter the facts

just to serve for laughs

the night horse has galopé trees to the sea

and held the reins of thousand charitable representations

It has dragged the along hedges

where men breasts caught the assault

with all whisper stuck to its flanks

among the huge rugissements to rattrapaient
while fleeing the power of water

immense they are succédaient while that of any small whisper

could not be englouits and surnageaient

in the invincible solitude where spent tunnels

forests cities harnachées seas herds

a single man to the breath of several countries

met cascading and slippery on a smooth blade

of the fire unknown introduced sometimes at night

for the loss of those sleep assembles

in their deep remember

but talk more of those that bound

to the fragile branches to the bad moods of nature

even those who suffer harsh blows

tend the neck and on their body treadmill

when birds do not picorent Sun seeds

sound rigid boots of the conquerors

they are out of my memory

birds seek other spring jobs

to their calculations of sinécures

by charming herds of affolements

the wind at their kits

that the desert them is counted

the devil for warnings

Entertainment poppies and companys

crape the cold

fear monte

dry tree

human lézarde

panes fighting

fear monte

No word is fairly soft

to bring the child of the roads

lost in the head

a man at the edge of the season

It looks at the vault

and look at the abyss

watertight bulk

headsthe smoke in the throat

the roof is dwindling

but the famous animal arc-bouté

in the attention of the muscles and weird under the spasms

teep rock éclair leak in rock

is the appetite of joy déchaine

the morning rebuilt his world

to measure his yoke

Sea robber

You te penches under the expectation

and te lèves and whenever you salues drunk sea at your feet

on the sea star road

filed by columns of uncertainty

You te penches you te lèves

salutes brassés by bands

and on the heap must yet thou procedures

even while avoiding the most beautiful need yet thou procedures

You te penches

on the sea star road

my brothers shout of pain at the other end

needed them intact

What are the hands of the sea

l’on gives men nothing

glorious path on the path of the sea stars

"alcachofas alcachofas" is my beautiful Madrid

in the eyes of Tin fruity voice

that is open to all winds

vague fire iron waves

It's the splendours of the sea

needed them intact

those renversées broken branches

on the sea star road

where leads this path it leads to pain

men fall when they want to recover

men sing because they have tasteddeath

yet must walk

It workst

he path of the stars of sea by columns of uncertainty

but it empêtre in the voice of the lianas"

alcachofas alcachofas" is my beautiful Madrid at the low lights

open to all winds

calling me - years - of the discarded

It is a head of King damn son son

It is a head is the wave that sweeping

It is yet on the path of the sea stars

hands are open

They speak the beauty of the glory

nothing as reflections of tiny heave

nand imperceptible eyes surround clignements

broken waves

seas fireball

but it is open to all winds Madrid

who tramples the floor in my head

alcachofas alcachofasthe screams capitals raidis

ouvre_ you infinite heart

that enters the path of the stars

in your numbers life as the sand

and the joy of the seas

contains the Sun

in the chest where shines overnight human

the man of today ' today on the sea star road

has planted the advanced sign of life

as it must live

the flight freely chosen of the bird jusqu’à deat

hand jusqu’à the end of the stones and ages

eyes fixed on the only certainty of the world

whose drips light rabotant trapped on the ground
______________________________________________

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HAROLD NORSE AND THE BEAT HOTEL

The hotel, the patronne Madame Rachou and the stair well.
Owing to the less stringent laws in force at the time,
the smoking of hashish and marijuana was, among some
of the residents, a social activit y like any other in the hotel.
The distinctive smell would, day or night, drift from
someof the ill-fitting doors on to the stairs..beat Hotel

Harold Norse was part of the magical interlude of "The Beat Hotel". Along with William Burroughs and Brion Gysin he playe d a pivotal part in the seeds that led to cyberspace.

Excerpts from "Beat Hotel":

"Bob sat up straight in bed, straining to listen. Nothing. Voices crackled as from an old radio and figures strirred in some numb echo-chamber of his brain, like newspapers down a windy street. He felt enclosed in a soundproof room. He had no idea where he was. He looked around without comprehension, not even knowing what city he was in. Low rapid monologue, nervous whisper of junk journey, endless trips -- "... in Tangier, for example, I dug Arabic from Hebrew -- same language you see -- you get these programs from Radio Cario -- I can tell what they're saying -- school broadcasts for example: Little Mohammed, says teacher, what do you do when you meet a Jew? Kill him. Little Mohammed, what do you do when you meet two Jews? I call ten Arabs to kill 'em...Good-natured laughter and applause. Like Little Mohammed is six years old, dig. And didja know Jews ain't allowed to ride camels because that way they're higher than an Arab...?"
"Aladdin and Titania still in Tangier?"
"Too stoned to move...three years in the Casbah..empty palace..mosaicwalls...six kids...rush mats...a cat...a groundhog..nah, I forgot...somebody ate the groundhog...made groundhog soup..."
"Man, all they ever eat is brownies, majoun brownies...hash, honey, sesame seeds, anise, dates, cinnamon...check runs out each month...the bread goes for hash and grass...even the kids are stoned...contact high...they were conceived high, Aladdin says.,.those little girls giggle all the time...lean against each other for support and giggle...never talk ..."
"Aladdin don't say much...and Titania...has any one ever heard her say a word?"
"They're living in the UNIVERSE, man...no gas...no water...no electricity...only the blinding light of the void...in hotel universe...hotel nirvana..."
"Blue dream of space...celestial flash of blue light in crystal blue silence...on blue mosaic floors...lattice light on silent mosaic heads..."
"Aladdin's a joint machine...sits and rolls till he's catatonic...a holyroller...shit is his religion...best dealer in Tangier...you always get a good count."
"Yeh, best mind in the business...except for Leary..."
"They're buddies...on the astral plane...Communicate via astral post office... Saves money in stamps ...."

Angry with journalists who called the hotel a "flea-bag shrine", Harold Norse used their expression to prophesy;"The flea-bag shrine will be documented by art historians".

Patrick Shelley, the English sensualist painter, and AllenGinsberg, Room 25. Christmas 1956.
Shelley introduced me to the Beat Hotel in the winter of that year.

Light Control Panel for each of the rooms in the Beat Hotel.

The bulb glowed dimly or brightlyaccording to the amount

of electricity beiing used.

photographer Harold Chapman

HAROLD NORSE

Queer Beat Poet

Political activist and writer Born 1916, New York City. B.A., Brooklyn College 1938; M.A., New York University 1951. At age 22 in 1939 he became a member of W. H. Auden's inner circle, cited by scholar/critic Nicholas Jenkins in The New Yorker, April 1, 1996. William Carlos Williams called him "the best poet of your generation." The 10-year correspondence between Norse and Williams (1951-1961) was published by Bright Tyger, San Francisco 1990. [...]
That year City Lights published Norse's Hotel Nirvana: Selected Poems, establishing him among the leading Beat poets. He was nominated for the 1974 National Book Award.Norse lived in the "Beat Hotel" in Paris, 1960-63, with William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso. There he wrote his experimental cut-up novel, Beat Hotel, published in German by Maro Verlag, Augsburg 1973, now in its 30th printing. [...]
With Carnivorous Saint: Gay Poems 1941-1976, Gay Sunshine Press 1977, Norse became the leading gay liberation poet. His Memoirs of a Bastard Angel (William Morrow), 1989, preface by James Baldwin, further established his reputation. [...]Norse has produced 12 books of poetry and 3 of prose. He has received 2 NEA poetry grants and a Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Poetry Association.

Classic Frieze in a Garage

I was walking thru the city past umberembassies

& pine-lined palaces

fat palms beside balconies

the heat something

you could really touch

the kids with cunning

delinquent faces

after american sailors

-thinking of nerval tends-moi le pausilippe

et la mer d'Italie & living

on the hill posillipo under

a gangster's dancefloor

among goldfinches

on the bay of naples

in a stone cottage

over tufa caves in which the sea

crashed in winter sweet gerad

one hundred years

have made the desolation greater

the tower is really down & the sun blackened

beyond despair the loudspeaker drowns

finches cliffs caves

all in the hands of racketeers

yet i have passed my time dreaming thru this

fantastic wreck

walking thru incendiary alleys of crowded laundry

with yellow gourds in windows &

crumbling masonry of wars

human corruption

so thick and hopeless that i laugh

when suddenly i saw among the oil & greasy rags

& wheels & axles of a garage

the carved nude figures of

a classic frieze

there above the dismantled

parts of cars!

perfect! & how strange! garage

swallows sarcophagus!

mechanic calmly spraying

paint on a

fender

observed in turn by lapith and centaury

flow

of unthinking flesh!

frank thighs!eyes

of aphrodite!

the myth of the mediterranean

was in that garage

where the brown wiry

youths saw nothing unusual

at their work

among dead heroes & gods

but i saw hermes in the rainbow

of the dark oil on the floor

reflected there

& the wild hair of the sybil

as her words bubbled

mad and drowned

beneath the motor's roar