Description and metaphor,
        The fancy dancing of language,
                                                        to what good end, my friend, to what end?
        And who will remember us and our enterprise?
        Whose fingers will sift our dust?

—Charles Wright, from Littlefoot. FararStrauss&Giroux, 2008

Once in a while, we all succumb
                                                                 to the merely personal,
Those glass shards and snipped metal
That glitter and disappear and glitter again
                                                                                  in the edged night light
Of memory’s anxious sky.

—Charles Wright, from “Scar Tissue II,” in Scar Tissue (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2006)

When I was me I remembered

I could remember what was not there
but may have been there
I could still see where
it had been or they had been
even when no one else
said they remembered


when I was me I could not put it in words
though I could hear words waiting
for me to recognize them
ghosts of the unborn
but words could not say it

—W. S. Merwin, opening lines to “Natural History of Forgetting,” from The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)

There is no metaphor, there is no simile,
                                                                                and there is no rhetoric
To nudge us to their caress.
The trees remain the trees, God help us.
And memory, for all its warmth,
                                                 is merely the things we forgot to forget.

—Charles Wright, from “Dude,” in Caribou (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2014)

If you persist in throttling your impulses you end by becoming a clot of phlegm. You finally spit out a gob which completely drains you and which you only realize years later was not a gob of spit but your inmost self. If you lose that you will always race through dark streets like a madman pursued by phantoms. You  will always be able to say with perfect sincerity: I don’t know what I want to do in life. You can push yourself clean through the filament of life and come out at the wrong end of the telescope, seeing everything beyond you, out of grasp, and diabolically twisted. From then on the game’s up. Whichever direction you take you will find yourself in a hall of mirrors; you will race like a madman, searching for an exit, to find that you are surrounded only by distorted images of your own sweet self.

—Henry Miller, Sexus. Grove Press, 1994

Album Art

Miles Davis—“Nefertiti”

Nefertiti (Columbia 1967).

Miles Davis -trumpet;
Wayne Shorter -tenor saxophone;
Herbie Hancock -piano;
Ron Carter -bass;
Tony Williams -drums.

(via jazzrelatedstuff)

ArtistMiles Davis

“Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned. Serenity Publishers, 2009

I had a need for her which was never answered, and that need was like a wound which grew and grew until it became a gaping hole. As life went on, as that desperate need grew more intense, I dragged everything into the hole and murdered it.

—Henry Miller, Sexus. Grove Press, 1994

Album Art

Thierry Maillard - piano,
Yoann Schmidt - battery
Matyas Szandai -bass

ArtistThierry Maillard Trio
TitleFor Bela
AlbumThe Alchemist