... you think you want to write away the immediate so that what is past may some how lead to a present absolution, a huge forgiving, of all the horrible acts&words you've committed knowingly and unknowingly ... to chant some magical incantation which will be completely understood resulting in a cleansing so deep that any dirty history flushes away ... after all where does all the shit go but to a place designed to handle and transform waste into manageable fragments of burial forgotten ... but then you think maybe nothing would be left but pious acts of duty&responsibility ... certainly not peace ...

... so it came to pass, one dark afternoon, the black snow fell and never stopped ... piling higher&higher & drifts reached the eyes till breathing became difficult ... battle seemed inevitable ... impersonal warring personal ... shouts were heard all around and the ambulances pierced the ear muffling the cries and you could do nothing but watch in horror ... self loathing&watching other self ... avoid seeing followed by a bloody, red, angry pact with ... nothing but visible self destruction in the name of ... go ahead complete the faustian annihilation of ...

did you ever feel helpless while the storm raged?

The Eyes

by Antonio Machado. Translated by Alan S. Trueblood.

I

When his beloved died
he thought he'd just grow old,
shutting himself in the house
alone, with memories and the mirror
that she had looked in one bright day.
Like gold in the miser's chest,
he thought he'd keep all yesterday
in the clear mirror intact.
For him time's flow would cease.

II

But after a year had passed,
he began to wonder about her eyes:
"Were they brown or black? Or green? ...Or grey?
What were they like? Good God! I can't recall..."

III

One day in spring he left the house
and took his double mourning down the street
in silence, his heart tight shut...
In the dim hollow of a window
he caught a flash of eyes. He lowered his...
and walked right on...Like those!