Wednesday, December 17, 2008

henry miller there is buried legend after legend of youth and melancholy, of savage nights and mysterious bosoms dancing on the wet mirror of the pavement, of woman chuckling softly as they scratch themselves, of wild sailors' shouts, of long queues standing in front of the lobby, of boats brushing each other in the fog and tugs snorting furiously against the rush of tide while up on the Brooklyn Bridge a man is standing in agony, waiting to jump, or waiting to write a poem, or waiting for the blood to leave his vessels because if he advances another foot the pain of his love will kill him.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

for the moment i can think of nothing-except that i am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world.all along the banks the trees lean heavily over the tarnished mirror; when the wind rises + fills them with rustling murmur they will shed a few tears + shiver as the water swirls by. i am suffocated by it.