no things matter, really

maybe I waste my time on sentimentality

preserving the evidence of time and texture in a photograph of a building with peeling paint

preserving the love emotions, the qualities of a time and place,

in a poem

what is reality right now?

the horrible moment 

that I have or have not prepared for

that I may or may not remember 

the details or future memory changes 

It will never be the same

these are things a dear friend has given me, who I cannot be with very much. So I asked, do the things even really matter? will the things ever stop mattering? 

And, I decide.  I make it up.

as I go along



It doesn’t make sense, this love. life.

but I’ve just got to do it

Things will accumulate

Culminate in art

A train of thought

With boxcars full of the stuff

Barrelling on

On coal

Mountains of it.

These disturbed mountains

I’ve put in a box or two

passing through your town and mine
There’s our visit at the station

you’ll turn your back to me


I’m chugging along

Mountains away
( Unfishable. There’s the fact that the freight trains supply things so they have to return when things run out)


I blame and don’t blame these men 

Who can go on their strong legs

And cover up their double chins with beards 

 get women 30 years younger than them.

I don’t want a young man

Tell me your stories

I’ll lay you softly in your grave

At the end.

I offer you

Por Jorge Luis Borges (1934)

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows.

What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

Gates will never open

Carl Sandburg

And the gates will never open again?
And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?And you will look to the mountains
And the mountains will look to you
And you will wish you were a mountain
And the mountain will wish nothing at all?
This will be all?
The gates will never-never open again?

The dust and the wind only
And the rusty door hinges and moaning October
And Why-oh, why-oh, in the moaning dry leaves,
This will be all?

Nothing in the air but songs
And no singers, no mouths to know the songs?
You tell us a woman with a heartache tells you it is so?
This will be all?