A Pause

There has to be. Why wouldn't there.

There would be nine doves all entrapped to where they don't die.

There'd have to be an anchor to all that deserve the flight.

There'd have at the final end a more dried way to call themselves to find life.

There'd have to be one reading this now, and one who doesn't, pays bills for others.


There will never be just one. There will always have to be walks.

There will be water. There will be a man telling a woman he'd have to leave.

There'd have to be legends that don't die. There'd have to be some that do.

There'd have to be an easel burned with all the brushes, and a comeback that doesn't come.

There'd have to be a sister lost to her assets, and her husband all drenched in warm rain tells her he's done.

There would be walls and taverns and broken glass and mice. They be all nice.

Labels: Bisaya Films, David Foster Wallace, James Salter, Jerome David Salinger, Lydia Davis

Posted by Richard J.A. at 9:23:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

the part of it
    that doesn't fit
      is filled with spite and wit

the part of what
    you do not shut
      is one who will get mad.

the part of who
   you do not shoo
     will come back in divorce.

then you the one who took the run
    will never own the sun.

Labels: David Foster Wallace, Don't Breathe, Holy Motors, Jerome David Salinger, Lav Diaz, Leos Carax, The Handmaiden in the Philippines

Posted by Richard J.A. at 3:46:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

You are to worry now: your opportunities are open
And none of them are as promising as what I
Thought an eagle set free would be
They're more like the scene of a plowing
Of a farm no one owns. They're fragile
But not enough for a feather to shatter.
There's even doubt that no one knows the shit,
As you would put it. Right there, there is
Something wrong about you knocking yourself out.
What is your reason on saying you are worth less?
What is the purpose of invisibly flagellating yourself?
But anyway none of this matters now as you know
I already see everything you've opened-you surprise
None of my vulnerability; I'm sadder than youth.
Have I now caused you to let every beautiful thing
Pass by in your absence solely because you mistake
My soul as a garden's magenta? A specimen
Of specific undetermined endorsement?
A viewer of no one's sea?

Labels: Jerome David Salinger, Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 9:55:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

-for Jerome David Salinger

It's the name of my reading electronic gadget.
It reads stories. And knows a lewd act or two.
It is a recluse. There, dust settles.
It's a name. Nothing but an honest name.

It's whatever we cannot call our own
Yet day by day unwittingly know as never a lie.

It's a name, it's a name. Nothing but name.

Had we done more good to the world, it would have read it more
Anecdotes that start by saying we are all going to die
Smiling and tact by having it read more than once.

It's a name it's a name. Nothing but name.

You should watch your kids grow and not plan burning their shoes
You should say bread is better than not having anything to eat

You should say thanks to your mom for saying to you what's true
About your name, your name. Everything is of your name.

Labels: Cirilo Bautista, Jerome David Salinger, Nich Joaquin, Sylvia Plath

Posted by Richard J.A. at 9:04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments