reconcile

I don't like to be home. And each time i enter my room, it was like all the times I couldn't leave it. Everytime I walk into my room, and the lamp is on the desk illuminated once again, I can feel how sad I was before, and I wish to discard the sensation.

How worthless are feelings such as those.

no te olvidas del mar
no te olvidas del dia
que me toco vivir

No i sometimes wish there were more, that I had witnessed more attempts by others to look into what I do. I'm going to california now though so i'm the one who's free, if we could have switched places. now i'm the one set free. 
No but I've been pretty organized and all the passion has fled like the nearest god-fearing bird could have gone and any faster it could not have been swept away. I tell my new date when to call and I can count on not being surprised for not a second of the journey. I do not wait out my days but I pencil him into my planner and he calls on the appointed day. Soon I'll be departing though. And he talks like I'm crazy about him but the truth is it's the other way around really. I'm just changing my principles, I said to her, because falling is so hard and lately I don't feel the need to feel any kind of supersized emotions, and neither do I wish to touch the sky.

Is it possible just to be happy without sorrow 

"I didn't say you could come here"
"can I come there?"

I had many dreams last night and in one of them I was in a strange company and we were fleeting, and one woman was very pregnant. I was outside and the pregnant woman comes out of the house holding her child who was just born, and it was the most beautiful child I had seen, for his skin was fair and shone as if it was covered with something smooth. She asked me if I wanted to hold him and I was reluctant to do this, but then the child looked at me with his calm and blue eyes he said to me that I had beautiful eyes. I was not ready for this and quickly turned away. Later I wished to hold him and he said some things to me that I don't remember now, but they were holy and revealing. The mother told me that when she was still in the house and before she gave him birth, she heard him speak and say to her to go to me and follow me, and so she did and on the way giving birth. For Man liveth not by bread alone

The thought of you always humbled me to life, and if before this I have said a few words, then I wish I wouldn't have said anything even if there was no one around. Then I wish I wouldn't have thought anything as I did.

Once I knew a girl in the hard hard times 
She made me a shirt out of fives and dimes 
Now she's gone but when I wear it she crosses my mind 
And if the best is for the best then the best is unkind

I realized that Illinois was more than I could stand 
They say working's best cause poverty is hell on a man 
Now I ride a lazy river through the Mississippi fan 
And if the best is for the best then the best can be damned

I spent a few years on the Queen of Spain 
She was a leaky little boat that went up in flames 
When the boiler blew some people started naming names 
But if the best is for the best I guess the best is to blame

I spent a few more as the Cairo Crown 
A heavyweight wrestler in the Midwest towns 
But I was lonesome for a girl who could pin me down 
They say the best is for the best but that's not what I've found

Now I listen to my sweetheart and I listen to my thirst 
I don't spend time listening to other people's words 
Sometimes they're right most times the reverse 
They say the best is for the best when the best's for the worse

Once I knew a girl in the hard hard times 
She made me a shirt out of fives and dimes 
Now she's gone but when I wear it she crosses my mind 
And if the best is for the best then the best is unkind

Yeah Whatever

Sometimes when I wake up I put on your sweater I got you and sit on my bed awhile. It is sweaty in the room in the mornings. Maybe if you were in it everything would be suddenly fresher. But you know what I've sang my songs and if you havnt heard me well then I've been singing em to a deaf man.

Should the story change, and I put away the subjects for a more philosophical outlook, I will open a window to let the air in

Not thinking of the proud world's pleasure,
But cherishing your friendship's claim,
I would have wished a finer treasure
To pledge my token to your name-
One worthy of your soul's perfection,
The sacred dreams that fill your gaze,
Your verse's limpid, live complexion,
Your noble thoughts and simple ways.
But let it be. Take this collection
Of sundry chapters as my suit:
Half humorous, half pessimistic,
Blending the plain and idealistic-
Amusement's yield, the careless fruit
Of sleepless nights, light inspirations,
Born of my green and withered years...
The intellect's cold observations,
The heart's reflections, writ in tears.

"I see you but I don't know your name...you are so mysterious"
"But why do you need to know my name"
"It is unnecessary then, it seems, to say hello"

Sometimes when I awake early in the morning in Pennsylvania and sit in my kitchen waiting for the water to boil, I look out at that borderline time of day, when darkness and light mix together.

The rain already woke me up at night. When I got up I had some tea, but I couldn't finish it. I wished then that I was an animal in Africa. Maybe I could be one of those penguins in the south of Africa. I dream of animals and everything in my dreams is grey and dirty.

She talks to me about her days in the war with men, and how the best thing to do if you don't want something is to leave it alone

God I am smug when they talk about Belsen-
I've never killed anyone in my life!
I simply betray:

let the phone ring,
seal a typed letter,
say to the girl in the courtyard,
"I never saw him before in my life,"
call a cab, pull on gloves,
and leave. And leave you,
and leave you with the bill.

"Home," I say to the cabby,
"home, driver, to Tinker Creek.
It's in Virginia."
And he says, "Sorry, honey,
you can't get there from here."
"Then driver, please," I say,
"put me to bed."

Take a hot bath; take
a cold shower.
In your mouth stick
a silver spoon
so you don't crack.

Today you hurt your hand
on the fireplace.
Tonight a Chinook
rose up from the south.
And my mouth
stuck shut,
my belly shook,
my eyes blinked hot,
and I went to the window.

There, stalking the lawn,
white tipis, wraith-like, ranged.
A smell of blood burned up.
The moon bruised down.
Anthlers hung in the trees.
A thousand tipi doors lashed back,
void, like riven graves.

And in the creek,
in Tinker Creek,
a sky-high blackened hull rose up,
a red-stacked ocean liner, sailing upstream.

They're on the roof,
naked, but I hear them.
I remember reading
in my room, just reading,
and shutting the book,
and looking up,
and missing you, missing you,
and reading the paper again.
There's no freedom in it
or in fear:
my heart's not mine.
Once I went to the door,
and an old black woman was there,
in a clown suit
and a clown's peaked hat,
and she carried a brown cloth bag.
Once an ape trailed through the hall
in my nightgown.
Once I surprised in the bathroom
the last of the Inca kings,
tall Atahualpa,
in his hand-stitched bat-skin robe.

"Don't worry," I said.
"It's all right," I said,
and ducked.

Oh, I've been here and there
around the heart-
a few night spots, really,
the kind that call themselves "Rathskellers,"
dim-lit, always changing hands,
and frequented on Sundays.
By the regulars:
mother in mink on the bar,
father looking up the grate to the sidewalk,
babies battling on the floor,
some sort of red-eyed monk
with a black-eyed mynah bird,
a clown (that clown!)-
and you,
variously:
weeping at the piano,
eating fly-blown meat with a spoon,
swirling a beer, and saying,
"Marry me"; or
"I read your letter
(diary, palm)"; or
"You don't understand."
And then always,
"Good-bye"
(So long, Take care)-
remember?
And then I leave.
I'm always the one who leaves.

God send us the springtime lamb
minted and tied in thyme
and call us home, and bid us eat
and praise your name.

I'd rather sit than read in the few minutes between waking up and work. Did you think I was stupid enough to show what I write? Maybe we are all lucky to be rid of the burden.

I NEVER KEEP JOURNALS

I am drinking orange juice. I was looking at some paintings of Chile and it made me nostalgic and sad about the fact that I can't paint its mountains and its apple fields. There is nothing I miss more. Well, I must get back to my screenplays about South America. Although I imagine the best things about life and about nature are kept in secret and not for me to find. There is no truth if there are no secrets.

The plane flight home was long and we shook a little at the Ecuador. I don't know why that is but you can't even drink tea at this short interval of time because it will spill. Like the plane is going down. But I ordered apple juice that came from a can. And it was long and weird and I couldn't wait for it to be over. When it was over I took all my stuff and went to the airport where a girl picked me up with a sign in a limo. I said yeah I was fine and happy but I was alone and grieving for the losses that I experienced back in the country. I was forced to leave the fields and the warm weather because of the violence that broke out and because of other things I'd rather not talk about. I am not used to being here anymore and I am always cold and I keep getting these phone calls from strangers and I don't know what they're saying.