i could tell of beautiful things, today:
i could tell of love, and beauty, and sunshine, and wonder. how clouds, on a clear night, will kiss the moon, they used to show off their prowess in shifting shape. they will form ‘fros on the heads of women he has been with; that’s all he has. and even then he owns nothing– but emptiness.
i told of beautiful things, tomorrow:
sometimes the sun will shine lovingly on trees. (oh the pride of cypress standing on a loameness made by another!). there’s a greenness left behind by collapsing buildings that crash dreams, in nairobi, lately –or– always, (does anyone remember when they couldn’t sleep but dreamt, anyway?). she has learnt to dream with her feet: once, in an epileptic fit, he curled his toes so hard, it reminds her of the noise made by a hammer in a mortuary because one must have straight toes. we have always minded the viewers.
in the suffering between shauri moyo and loresho, the man last night could not remember how he lost his speech, she can only put her fingers into her ears, repeatedly. rhythmically, in, out, in and out, in. out. in, out. in and out subarus leaving behind the smell of suburban shauri yakos.
i will tell of beautiful things, yesterday. yesterday, perhaps if we could record faces, this one would interest the producer of misery.
but there is no beauty here. but water, water, still but flowing water.
water. the memory of texture.
i could tell of beautiful things today:
lines from michael palmer:
Yet it has begun to rain
after all. is that what you said?
Begun to rain after all?