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The flashes, a siren, a stretched-out roarâand you are not the guy and still you fit the description because there is only one guy who is always the guy fitting the description.
Get on the ground. Get on the ground now. I must have been speeding. No, you werenât speeding. I wasnât speeding? You didnât do anything wrong. Then why are you pulling me over? Why am I pulled over? Put your hands where they can be seen. Put your hands in the air. Put your hands up.
Then you are stretched out on the hood. Then cuffed. Get on the ground now.
Each time it begins in the same way, it doesnât begin the same way, each time it begins itâs the same. Flashes, a siren, the stretched-out roarâ
Maybe because home was a hood the officer could not afford, not that a reason was needed, I was pulled out of my vehicle a block from my door, handcuffed and pushed into the police vehicleâs backseat, the officerâs knee pressing into my collarbone, the officerâs warm breath vacating a face creased into the smile of its own private joke.
Each time it begins in the same way, it doesnât begin the same way, each time it begins itâs the same.
Go ahead hit me motherfucker fled my lips and the officer did not need to hit me, the officer did not need anything from me except the look on my face on the drive across town. You canât drive yourself sane. You are not insane. Our motion is wearing you out. You are not the guy.
FRAGMENTVM Citizen: An American Lyric
Sunt luces, acutus sonitus, gemitus extentusâtu non es quidem iste quaerendus sed vultus est similis, quod satis est unum habere omnium vultum.
Te demitte. Nunc te demitte. Necesse est me celerius movere. Non celeriter moves. Non celerius moveo? Nihil iniuste agis. Qua de causa me vexas? Cur vexar? Fac ut tuae manus possint videri. Pone ad caelum tuas manus. Pone sursum tuas manus.
Tum ad vehiculum pressus vinceris. Nunc te demitte.
Res eodem modo incipit cum non eodem modo incipiat; res eodem modo incipit cum incipit. Sunt luces, acutus sonitus, gemitus extentusâ
Cum causa non opus sit, fortasse quod mea villa nimium est sumptuosa proximus ianuae vehiculo mei extrahor, vincior et adducor ad vehiculum eius, genu ad iugulum presso, anima expulsa ex ore quod ridet tecti ludi causa.
Res eodem modo incipit cum non eodem modo incipiat; res eodem modo incipit cum incipit.
Opto ut me petas, inquam, cinaede, sed me petere non opus est. Opus est nihil si me eunte meus vultus videtur. Firmum te non potes ducere cum duces tuam animam conterant. Tu non es quidem iste.
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Mahogany best wishes to herself: The foremost thing is that you meditate on your breath. You're allowed to float with light handsâdo not thrash, when little fish delay you.
Mahogany best wishes to herself: You make the day most beautiful when smiling; do it often.
Mahogany best wishes to New York: You made this Californian woman fear others; I have learned from you not to look at strangers, not to touch, to speak, to smile.
Mahogany best wishes to her daughter: I fear that you are not safe; I pray that however the sun rises, so do you; may you understand that I work to my bones for you.
Mahogany best wishes to a girl: We deceive hope, of course when men mold us who have broken us with promises.
Mahogany best wishes to a girl: Take back the reckoning: some women break the spirit of good men.
I donât know what I should do with this, with the boiling going on inside my head. I tell myself itâs not real, these are just thoughts, but I fear I might do something stupid. As explosive as I feel, it is nice, too, because I feel like Iâm holding onto a secret. I will sit here and brace myself, my knuckles white as my insides burn, and no one will know this fire.
The train comes, and I get on, and the people inside are all quiet. I want to scream at them, to let them know, to show them just what Iâve found:
That you should cut these strings.
You should cut me open.
You should hunt and slay my pink thudding heart.
Your eyes may not show it,
they might not burn with my fever,
but your chest holds one, too.
LET IT OUT.
FRAGMENTVM âMental Illness on a Weekday,â Black Cloud
Nescio perturbationem animi et hos motus supprimere, qui ut dicam sunt de ventosa mente inania; metuo tamen ne dolendum faciam. Cum paene me rumpere possim, sic sentire mihi placet quoque, quasi graves res clam teneo. Itaque huc sedens manibus pressis me confirmabo, et nemo me viscera aestuatam sciet.
Commeatus advenit ad quem ascendo, intra quem omnes tacent. Quibus velim clamitare, indicare quid iam invenerim:
Quod has lineas secare oportet.
Tibi me secare.
Venari occidereque meum cor sanguinaeum tonans.
Non appareat in oculis tuis,
qui non aestuent quomodo mei,
sed unum quoque in pectu habetur.
IPSE ID LIBERA.
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I am ignorant of keeping down my disturbance of spirit and these movements, which as I say are empty things from my windy mind; still I fear that I will do something to be lamented. Although I can almost break myself apart, it pleases me to feel this way, as if I hold serious matters in secret. Therefore sitting here with my hands pressed I will hearten myself, and no one will know me burning with respect to my insides.
The train arrives to which I ascend, inside which everyone is silent. I would like to shout to them, to show what I found at that time:
Your parents catch on fast because theyâve been there before. Thatâs how they knew what the weed smell was. They also know how hard it was to move to Virginia from Massachusetts, how it was tough being poorer than most people in your old town, how much smaller Richmond feels, and how hard it is to leave everything behind and start over. Theyâre going through the same stuff as you, plus Mom misses her family, Dad still canât find work, and sometimes they get so stressed that they get mad at each other. Itâs not just them ganging up on you.
But they couldnât stay in Massachusetts. And if they had, you never would have seen Maximillian Colby play before the bassist died of spinal meningitis, or met Brendan and started your band. Moving to Virginia made you more willing to try new things. Some of them are good, like transferring to the artsy high school, or taking that road trip to see the beat poetry exhibit in DC (you should have kissed Ashley in the parking garage at Pentagon City, the minute she put the Jawbreaker tape on), others kinda questionable, like seeing how long you can drive with your eyes closed on Cherokee Rd. Youâre more adaptable and it will help you keep your options open. You wonât feel so stuck. So please keep looking for new adventures, just go easy on your folks and maybe also the weed.
FRAGMENTVMÂ âDear Teen Meâ; Chris L. Terry
Parentes celeriter te intellegunt propter memorandum, qua de causa nidor herbae ab eis agnotus est. Intelligunt quoque quantum paenituerit te a Massachusetts egressum habitare Virginiam, pecuniae minus quam multos in oppido habere, Richmond quam minimum videri, et omnibus relictis tibi opus omnia rursum incipere. Eadem eis patienda sunt, quibus adde matrem familiam desiderare, patrem nequere adhuc laborare, violenter vexatos inter se interdum vituperare. Res non est eos contra te conductos.
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Your parents understand you quickly on account of remembering, for which reason the smell of herb was recognized by them. They also understand how much it hurt that you inhabited Virginia after leaving Massachusetts, that you had less money than most in your town, that Richmond seemed as small as possible, and that it was necessary for you to begin everything again, having left everything behind. The same things must be suffered by them, to which add that mother longs for her family, father is still unable to work, that, having been violently frustrated, they sometimes argue among themselves. The thing is not that they have assembled against you.
It's not able to happen, that you stayed in Massachusetts. If you had stayed, you would not have seen Maximillian Colby when they played before the death of their very low guitar, or you would not have sung songs after meeting Brandon. Having set out to Virginia you wanted to experience new things, some of which should be praised: you are transferred to the school of art, you make a trip to see a show of poets in the Province Columbia (You ought to have given a kiss to Ashley in the stable of Pentagon City when she was about to begin playing the Jawbreaker song), and other should not be praised so much: you try to drive on Cherokee Road without your eyes for as long a space as possible. Now you can change more freely so you can do more things; later you will be able to move more freely. Therefore let it please you to make new journeys, and may you spare your parents, and perhaps also the herb.
Once, as a baby, I was sick and the family doctor called in a prescription to the local pharmacy. My father was supposed to pick it up on the way home from work, but he didnât come home until late, and he didnât have the prescription with him when he did. My mother was angry about the forgotten medicine, but also because he was drunk and because it had become obvious he was having an affair.
My mother says my father got angry at her for being angry with him and he started choking her. My mother remembers him pressing his thumbs on her windpipe and almost passing out. She remembers thinking it seemed like a stupid way to dieâŚ.
I was too young to remember anything about that time when my father choked my mother and she didnât tell me about it until after he was dead. But sometimes my father would ask my mother if she remembered when he almost choked her to death and then my mother would ask my father if he ever worried about his dinner being poisoned. And then they would both start laughing. My sister and I always thought it was a joke.
FRAGMENTVM Big Ray
Olim infirma valetudine infanti mihi medicus familiae medicamen parabat. Accipiendum erat patri meo cum multo die desineret laborare, sed multa nocte domi advenit medicaminis oblitus. Mater est irata quod medicamine relicto potus quidem erat pater et paene apertus adulter.
E relatione matris ipsa irata iratum patrem fecisse traditur ut hic se suffocaret; patrem pollices ad sui fauces pressisse et stultum sic mori se opinari mater meminitâŚ.
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Once the doctor of the family was preparing medicine for me, a baby with sickly health. It had to be received by my father when late in the day he finished working, but late in the night he arrived at home having forgotten the medicine. My mother was angry because although the medicine was left my father was even drunk and a near blatant cheater.
From the retelling of my mother, it is held that she being angry herself made my father angry, so that he choked her; my mother remembers that my father pressed his thumbs into her throat and she thought that to die in this way was stupid....
That my father choked my mother I do not remember because of my youth, but my mother told me after my father had died. Sometimes my father used to ask my mother whether she remembered that he had almost killed her by choking, to which my mother used to ask whether the anxiety bothered him that she may be about to spike his meal with poison, and then each used to laugh. My sister and I had thought that the laughter followed from a joke.
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My parents had a New Yearâs Eve party and I woke up to fat âUncleâ Steve with his hands under my sleep shirt. He smelled drunk and he told me shhhhh and kissed me on my mouth, his mustache bristly on my face. While he did everything I felt bad and good at the same time. I cried with no noise while thinking I wish I could scream or that I should scream. When he finished, he just left. I heard him walk down the hall, down the stairs, and I heard him shout, âFrances, get me another fuckinâ beer!â and everyone laughing in response. I didnât know if he meant my mom or my dad, because my momâs name was Frances and my dad was named Frank but âUncleâ Steve always jokingly called him Francis. I remember thinking that it didnât really matter, that nothing really mattered.Â
FRAGMENTVMÂ Normally Special
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During the festival of Matronalia at the home of my parents I was roused from sleep by my uncle, broad Steve, who was touching me beneath my shirt. Smelling of wine, he said âKeep quiet,â and kissed a kiss on my mouth with his hoary beard. While everything was happening I was glad and tormented, I cried quietly and although I wanted to cry out I was unable, although I ought to have. When he finished I heard that he went out through the hall and went down the stairs and while everybody laughed asked that Frances give him another beer. I hardly know whether he sought it from my mother or father, since my mother has the name Frances and my father, Frank by name, uncle Steve named Frances for the sake of a joke, but I thought that it matters not at all, that nothing matters at all.
Sure, at first you were concerned and probably a little enamored by her. Nympho the cat was an ugly little shit but she got you good, and real quick too. Sheâd be waiting out back near the empty kegs just mewling like a billy goat. Soon you started bringing her nips of meat and cheese from the fryer, all her brown eyes begging. The little slut. Then you were smuggling cans of cat food in and out of work, full then empty, getting the wiry thing all fattened up. It was all you could do to leave at the end of your shift. Then one night you came out and there they were: about ten raccoons staring you down, waiting for the feed. Green glowing eyes. You told me later, you said, âIt scared the shit out of me. But then I looked and right there in the middle ofâm was her.â Nympho the cat.
FRAGMENTVM âHeavy Woodsâ
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Although you took care of her and loved her out of your spirit, Nympho the cat, the little shit, she deceived you shrewdly all of a sudden, who, meowing like a goat, was waiting for you near the barrels behind the shop. Soon you were offering meat and cheese from the hearth to her in vain, Nympho the slut, with her dark little eyes always begging, then you were carrying sneakily little cans full of food having been devoured so many times that you fattened the lean cat, who all but forbid you from leaving with the last light, and then having left on a certain night you saw them, around ten dirty mice who, desiring food, observed you with menacing green eyes. Later you were telling me that they terrified you. "But then," you said, "among them, I saw her." Nympho the cat.
I would like to say Rest in Peace to Michael Brown, who will never get to see the next phase of his life. I would like to give all thoughts and prayers to the people who are out there peacefully protesting. I also give thoughts and prayers for the people who could not hold their anger in, because riots are only the language of the unheard.
We usually come on to Queenâs âChampion.â Iâve got to tell you today that no matter how much we do it, no matter how much we get shit together, shit comes along that kicks you on your ass so you donât feel like a champion. Tonight, I got kicked on my ass when I listened to that prosecutor. Iâm going to tell them: You motherfuckers got me today. I knew it was coming. I knew it when Eric Holder decided to resign. I knew it wasnât going to be good. Iâve got to tell: You motherfuckers got me today. You kicked me on my ass today, because I have a twenty year old son, I have a twelve year old son, and Iâm so afraid for them.
When I stood on the bus and I cried and I hugged my friend, and he came and he hugged me right thereâI said: These motherfuckers got me today. When I stood in front of my wife and I hugged her, and I cried like a babyâI said: These motherfuckers got me today.
But with that say: You motherfuckers will not own tomorrow. We will not live in your fear, we will not accept your cages, we are not going to keep playing that race card because we know you donât value my skin. We know you do value his, but you know what? Weâre friends and nothing is going to devalue that. . . .
I can promise you today: If I die when I walk off this stage tomorrow, Iâm going to let you know this. It is not about race. It is not about class. It is not about color. It is about what they killed him for.
It is about poverty. It is about greed. And it is about a war machine. It is about a war machine that uses you as a battery. I might go tomorrow. I might go the day after. But the one thing I want you to know: It is us against the motherfucking machine.
Killer Mike's Pre-show Ferguson Grand Jury Speech
Valete inquam puero Michael Brown qui aetatem proximam gerere non potest, hominibus qui in turba congressi recusant quominus se per iram agant, qui quoque incensi ira violenter urbem turbant, cum turba sit verba neglectorum.
Quamvis saepe ineamus per Reginae âVictorem,â quanto laboremus, res publicas ducamus, tanto in humum deicimur ut videamur non victores. Hodie causa dicta deiectus sum. âVos,â inquam, âcinaedi me hodie deiciunt.â Intellexi rem fore adversum cum Eric Holder munum deposuisset; intellexi rem fore peius. Mihi est opus dicere: Vos cinaedi me hodie deiciunt. Vos in humum me hodie deiciunt quod mihi est alter filius viginti annos natus, alter duodecim annos natus, et utrius iniurias tantas metuo.
Cum coram complectus amicum stabam qui etiam me complectebatur, âIsti,â inquam, âcinaedi me hodie deiciunt.â Cum pro coniungem stabam eam complectus lacrimis tantis effusis ut viderer infans, âIsti,â inquam, âcinaedi me hodie deiciunt.â
Sed etiam dicete vobis cinaedis crastinas res fore non secundas. Nolumus vos metuere, vestrum laqueos accipere, colorem corporum referre, quod vos nostra corpora non cara existimatis, et corpore illius caro, quid magnam vim habeat, ille est amicus mihi. . . .
Hodie polliceor me, etsi cras mortuus proscaenio exeam, haec admirmaturum: genus, ordinem pecuniarium, colorem nihil referre, sed solum reffere quid illum puerum interficiant.
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I say goodbye to the boy Michael Brown who is unable to bear the next phase of life, to the men who, having gathered in a crowd, refuse to conduct themselves in anger, and even those who, burning with rage, violently agitate the city, since a crowd is the words of the overlooked.
Although we often come on during Queen's "Victor," for as much as we work, as much as we lead public affairs, by that much we are knocked to the ground so that we do not seem like victors. Today after hearing the case I was knocked down. I said, "You motherfuckers knock me down today." I understood that the matter would be regressive when Eric Holder resigned from office; I understood that the matter would be worse. For me there is need to say: You motherfuckers knock me down today. You knock me to the ground today because I have one son twenty-years old, another twelve years old, and I fear such great injuries against both.
When I was standing in public having embraced my friend who also was embracing me, I said, "Those motherfuckers knock me down today." When I was standing before my wife having embraced her with such tears pouring out that I seemed like a child, I said "Those motherfuckers knock me down today."
But also say that the affairs of tomorrow will not be favorable for you motherfuckers. We refuse to fear you, to accept your nooses, to refer to the color of our bodies, because you do not judge our bodies as valuable, and although his body is valuable, what holds the greatest power, he is a friend to me . . . .
Today I promise that, even if I go off this stage having died, I would affirm these things: tat tribe, monetary class, and color do not matter, but it only matters why they killed that boy.
They killed the boy for poverty, for greed, for military affairs that need our strength. If I die tomorrow, the day after, nevertheless you ought to understand this: that we must always combat injury. Thus always to tyrants.
I watch crewmembers emptying their boats. Against the flat grey sky they look like orange buoys in those rainsuits, shimmering with seaweed and jellyfish guts. They have an entire season ahead of them. 30, maybe 40 days, if theyâre lucky. And if theyâre not, a whole year will need to pass before they can try again. I want the myths to be true for some reason. For the plight and power of these strange men to be raised up alongside the ancient marinerâs. I want them to be tougher, stronger, better, meaner, worse than me so that Iâm allowed to stand in silence when the swelling blue folds into itself and a thousand pounds of fish slide through their gloved hands. So that I can wonder what it is that separates them from me. The trouble with myth isnât that itâs elusive, itâs that we never stop looking for it, feeling for its shape. Itâs like watching someone you love while they sleep and thinking, âNow who is this?â.
FRAGMENTVMÂ âThe Sixtieth Parallel Northâ
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While they toss their nets from the ships, I watch the sailors, who dressed in hoods beneath the dark and flat sky, look like painted towers of Pharos, bright with algae and the innards of jellyfish. If fortune will be favorable, they will fish for thirty of forty days more; if it will not be, it is necessary to pass the whole year until they will set out again. Would that the stories were true, where the strength and deeds of those men contend with the godhead of Neptune. Would that the fishermen were braver than I, stronger, better, harsher, worse, so that after their nets are raised I can be silent when their hands accept the many thousand pounds of fish, and consider what things set them apart from me. The stories are not deceitful, but rather are always repeated and refashioned, just like the person watching their sleeping lover reconsiders who that person is now.
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The flashes, a siren, a stretched-out roarâand you are not the guy and still you fit the description because there is only one guy who is always the guy fitting the description.
Get on the ground. Get on the ground now. I must have been speeding. No, you werenât speeding. I wasnât speeding? You didnât do anything wrong. Then why are you pulling me over? Why am I pulled over? Put your hands where they can be seen. Put your hands in the air. Put your hands up.
Then you are stretched out on the hood. Then cuffed. Get on the ground now.
Each time it begins in the same way, it doesnât begin the same way, each time it begins itâs the same. Flashes, a siren, the stretched-out roarâ
Maybe because home was a hood the officer could not afford, not that a reason was needed, I was pulled out of my vehicle a block from my door, handcuffed and pushed into the police vehicleâs backseat, the officerâs knee pressing into my collarbone, the officerâs warm breath vacating a face creased into the smile of its own private joke.
Each time it begins in the same way, it doesnât begin the same way, each time it begins itâs the same.
Go ahead hit me motherfucker fled my lips and the officer did not need to hit me, the officer did not need anything from me except the look on my face on the drive across town. You canât drive yourself sane. You are not insane. Our motion is wearing you out. You are not the guy.
FRAGMENTVM Citizen: An American Lyric
Sunt luces, acutus sonitus, gemitus extentusâtu non es quidem iste quaerendus sed vultus est similis, quod satis est unum habere omnium vultum.
Te demitte. Nunc te demitte. Necesse est me celerius movere. Non celeriter moves. Non celerius moveo? Nihil iniuste agis. Qua de causa me vexas? Cur vexar? Fac ut tuae manus possint videri. Pone ad caelum tuas manus. Pone sursum tuas manus.
Tum ad vehiculum pressus vinceris. Nunc te demitte.
Res eodem modo incipit cum non eodem modo incipiat; res eodem modo incipit cum incipit. Sunt luces, acutus sonitus, gemitus extentusâ
Cum causa non opus sit, fortasse quod mea villa nimium est sumptuosa proximus ianuae vehiculo mei extrahor, vincior et adducor ad vehiculum eius, genu ad iugulum presso, anima expulsa ex ore quod ridet tecti ludi causa.
Res eodem modo incipit cum non eodem modo incipiat; res eodem modo incipit cum incipit.
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There are lights, a high-pitched sound, a drawn-out groanâyou are not even that man who must be sought but your appearance is similar, because it is enough that one man have the appearance of all.
Drop down. Drop down now. It must be that I move rather quickly. You do not move quickly. I do not move rather quickly? You do nothing unjustly. For what reason do you harass me? Why am I harassed? Make that your hands are able to be seen. Put your hands to the sky. Put your hands up.
Then pressed to the vehicle you are fettered. Drop down now.
The thing begins the same way although it begins not the same way; the thing begins the same way when it begins. There are lights, a high-pitched sound, a drawn-out groanâ
Although there is no need for a reason, perhaps because my house is too expensive I am dragged out of my vehicle so near to my door, I am fettered and I am led to his vehicle, his knee pressed to my collarbone, his breath exhaled from a mouth that smiles for the reason of a hidden game.
The thing begins the same way although it begins not the same way; the thing begins the same way when it begins.
I want you to attack me, I say, motherfucker, but there is no need to attack me. The need is nothing if my appearance is seen while I am going. You cannot lead yourself healthy when your leaders wear out your spirit. You are not even that man.
I read an article about loneliness in a Jesus magazine while I ate. None of my coworkers believed in Jesus. We made fun of the earnest and plain-looking women who congregated in the religious section, one of them offering advice while the other protested mildly, their quilted Bible covers in paisley prints. Sometimes I got the urge to join them. It wasnât because there was something missing. The something missing was the plight of humanity--any idiot knew that--it couldnât be filled with food or alcohol or drawing blood from skin. I just missed having friends.
FRAGMENTVMÂ âFast Trains,â Big World
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When I was eating I read a written piece about loneliness in a little Christian book. My comrades, with whom I laughed at the simple and unadorned women congregated in section of divine things, had no faith in Christ. Of these women who carried Bibles covered with domestic fabrics, some gave us advice, others were a little disturbed. Sometimes I was driven to join them, not for the reason that I longed for higher things, for any stupid person understands that the higher things are sought by all, which cannot be found with food or wine or blood drawn from flesh; in truth, I longed for friends.
When I was twenty years old, I became a kind of apprentice to a man named Andrew Lytle, whom pretty much no one apart from his negligibly less ancient sister, Polly, had addressed except as Mister Lytle in at least a decade. She called him Brother. Or BruthaâI donât suppose either of them had ever voiced a terminal r. His two grown daughters did call him Daddy. Certainly I never felt even the most obscure impulse to call him Andrew, or âold man,â or any other familiarism, though he frequently gave me to know it would be all right if I were to call him mon vieux. He, for his part, called me boy, and beloved, and once, in a letter, âBreath of My Nostrils.â He was about to turn ninety-two when I moved into his basement, and he had not yet quite reached ninety-three when they buried him the next winter, in a coffin I had helped to makeâa cedar coffin, because it would smell good, he said. I wasnât that helpful. I sat up a couple of nights in a freezing, starkly lit workshop rubbing beeswax into the boards. The other, older menâwe were four altogetherâabsorbedly sawed and planed. They chiseled dovetail joints. My experience in woodworking hadnât gone past feeding planks through a band saw for shop class, and thereâd be no time to redo anything I might botch, so I followed instructions and with rags cut from an undershirt worked coats of wax into the cedar until its ashen whorls glowed purple, as if with remembered life.
FRAGMENTVM "Mr. Lytle: An Essay," Pulphead
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At twenty years old I was adjoined to the man named Andrew Little, who certainly for ten years had been called Master by everyone except his sister, who, named Polly, a little less old, called him Frater, or rather, since the final letter R was never sounded, Frateh, and his daughters, who called him Tata. Although without a doubt I never wanted to call him Andrew, or old man, or another familiar name, he nevertheless urged me to call him Ďὸν áźÎźá˝¸Î˝ ÎłÎĎονĎÎą. He even called me boy, beloved, or once, in a letter, "Breath of My Nostrils." When he had been ninety-two years old I had lived in his basement; when he was ninety-three the next winter he was buried in a coffin that, constructed from cedar with its sweet smell, as he thought, i built with others, although I wasn't able to do much. For not just a few nights, cold, in the workshop without much light, I was rubbing the boards with wax alongside the others, men more skilled than me, who guided the saw, fully absorbed in the affair, and planed the boards, who were able to form complicated joints with a chisel. I was unskilled in crafting wood, because I hadn't led boards under a saw since boyhood, and there wasn't time to correct faults, so that having been taught what things needed to be done, I rubbed the cedar with wax on cloths torn from a shirt until the knots, the color of ash, seemed purple, like life in memory.
I think it would be fun if I were the saddest thing in the world.
I think people would band together to make me an award. At the ceremony it would be very touching. They would carry me and I would crowd-surf them even if I were something that doesnât move like a shoe or an ant that died. Because I think the saddest thing in the world might be a dead ant. They work so hard and I think most of them die from exhaustion. They never sleep or eat or drink water. I told you one time that I wanted a tattoo on my arm of ants underwater and a squid. You said that ants underwater must be the saddest thing in the world. You ignored the squid, but I didnât disagree about that other thing you said. It was on the internet where this happened and not in real life and I think I just stared at the screen and felt a little sad, but mostly just excited and happy.
FRAGMENTVM âAt That Leftover Crack Concert Two Years before I Met You,â you are a little bit happier than i am:  taolin.info
Mihi libeat si sim quam miserrimum.
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It would please me if I were as sad a thing as possible.
Everyone would give me a prize, and with everyone's spirits having been roused I would be carried in a triumph over their bodies, who am perhaps a motionless shoe or a dead ant, for a dead ant, I think, is the saddest thing. After working with all their strength, they die, who having been tired out in vain never rest, eat, or drink water. Once I was saying to you that I want to be marked with signs that show ants immersed in water with a polypus, to which you said that ants in water are the saddest thing to you. Although you forgot the polypus, I still agree with you. Since these things were said on the Internet, not in person, after I saw the letters I was stunned being a little sadder, but nevertheless I was excited and rejoiced.
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The islanders of Tivi Velu were worriers. They worried about their families, their health, their finances, their friends, their futures, the weather and every possible catastropheâeven those they had yet to imagine. One day a pelican arrived on shore and held in its beak an amulet to ward off worry. Some islanders worried that it might not work, others worried that it would. What would they do if they didnât worry? While the pelican waited, a debate ensued, so heated in fact that no one noticed the bird fly off with the amulet still in its beak.
FRAGMENTVM âFive Amulet Storiesâ:Â Roberta Allen
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Those who live on the island Tivi Velu are accustomed to burn with anxiety about their family, about their health, about monetary affairs, about friends, about things that need to be done, about storms, about all dangers that are able to affect them, even unknown. Once when a pelican with an amulet carried in its mouth that warded off anxiety came to their shores, some were burning with anxiety about its powers, others about its lack of powers: for they are said to have nothing except anxiety. While the pelican waited they argued amongst themselves with spirits so aroused that no one noticed the bird flying away with the amulet in its mouth.
Even kids know there are ends to each duration. Days are simple enough. At the very edges, you could count by the measures of awake and asleep. But for you and me, we were working on a different edge then that had one final segment. I hadnât thought that it would be marked by the white and green ferry. Right then, hearing you, I knew once we got off the boat, our day would be over. We would be over. If the point of the day had been to prolong the moment, our missing the ferry only increased the time we had together, however small in retrospect. This was our time. Start on one side. End on the other. Here we were, together preparing for the end. âYeah sure. Whatever,â I said. I wanted there to be something to hold in my memory from all this even if it meant some dumb little snap back on my part. But it could have been anything: a shell from the beach, a kiss. Whatever.
FRAGMENTVM âBlue Is a Cold Number #1â
Liberi quidem sciunt cuique spatio, ut scilicet ita diebus, esse fines, nam dormiturus potest quando ac quantum sit somnum metari. Nobis tamen una pars ante finem manebat cum in alba viridique nave trans flumen navigavimus ignari dum te audita intellego finem nave relicta esse venturum. Obvii finem ibamus. Si iter ad tempus trahendum faceremus, prima nave amissa tempus plus trahebatur, quam minime, ut nunc opinor, tale enim erat nostrum tempus: proximo fine excesso ulteriorem mox transgrediamur. Disiuncti esse parabamus; âSic,â inquam, âSi libet.â Stultus volebam aliquid leve memoriae comprehendere, quid sit nihil refert, utrum concha litore an basium. Si libet.
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Even children know that for each space there are borders, as likewise, of course, there are for days, like the man about to fall asleep is able to measure when and how much sleep there is. But for us, one part remained before the boundary when we sailed across the river in a white and green boat, unknowingly until, having heard you, I understood that the end would come when we left the boat. We were on the way to meet the end. If we had made the trip to drag out the time, time was being dragged out more when we missed the first boat, however little, as I think now, for our time was such: leaving the last border, we cross soon into the next. We were preparing to be separated; âYes,â I said, âIf it pleases.â I wanted foolishly any trifling thing to stick to memory, what it was didnât matter, whether a shell from the beach or a kiss. If it pleases.
