And still, it moves. The great man knew. He couldn’t let go of the naked truth of its scope, its beauty, but worship science? The powers will not have it; the solution: cognitive dissonance. Galileo. Like him, I know. He knew the center: Solitary and unworshipped by nature– roughed out of bonds by obvious revolutions; […]
She asked me, “Poppa, What is love?” And I thought and then said “Love is what you need and want it to be.” She thought some and said, “Love is a tree.” And I thought that she was so right. And I think of how my tree looks compared to hers, how they are both
All who know his shop call him Harry, though shop called “Nelson’s Books.” Dmitri call own boss Harry, only because he ask to do so. Not mathematician, Dmitri have counted hairs left on Harry’s head so many time that sure: three left, very long, most carefully arrangéd in halo formation, and quite right so, for
I just want to be a poem, To let my motions move you to speak, So you say my name in A thousand different ways, each word A drop of rain captured on pen tip In a spiral notebook I want my eyes to see you As you speak my language written In silver letters
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Sitting in tavern on South Wabash, look up, see on television set one very, very ugly man, black man with great growth on forehead, huge shoulder, neck. Think, another show about black criminal everyone fear here. No. Grotesque black giant open mouth and Dmitri expect curse, but instead sing. With voice that angel if were
March has ended once more. In Tennessee the trees are gowned with light green, in Washington cherry trees sparkle white-pink parasols. Here the mountain crevices still glow white, stale sky shining behind clouds tinged with gray. Blind to the calendar, the cold parches grizzled brush, and small green globes among the roots drowse. This time last
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