( via / via )

Incomprendido.

"The Worms at Heaven's Gate

Out of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour
Within our bellies—we her chariot.
Here is an eye; and here are, one by one,
The lashes of that eye and its white lid.

Here is the cheek on which that lid declined,
And, finger after finger, here the hand,
The genius of that cheek. Here are the lips,
The bundle of the body, and the feet.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Out of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour."

--Wallace Stevens

Funeral Oration for a Mouse. (via @maryanncorbett)

"When asked why he wrote in a dead language, [Isaac Bashevis] Singer said he was wont to reply that he wrote mostly about ghosts, and that is what ghosts speak, a dead language." --Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill in NYT Book R 1-8-95

What If AI Hands Are A Feature Not A Bug?

The only poem i have been able to find by a Dallas poet contemporaneous with the Kennedy Assassination:

"The Spell

You can almost see him, looking as if well,
Shedding it, shaking it off,
The least shadow on the shoulders
Marking the hurt--as if absorbed almost;
Then the face turning, alive--

Only hesitating momentarily--

Until you remember how the head
Was horribly shattered
And fell, with the lifted hair,
As from an ax in back--Oswald
Cutting a path for himself
In the midst of America, a wedge;

But was the thing as it sped,
Coppered, leaden, not stopped
Perhaps there in the invincible thick hair?
Where the woman with her skill
Could pick it away, in her lap,
Breaking the spell? in the cloth of her dress--

It was deeper than that;
Neither burr nor dune thistle,
Nor like the roses she held
Black as blood in the light, so dark red--
But a kind of blunt bud, splintered
Into flower, that could not be touched,
Having its own final force that spread throughout,
The blind dark overwhelming him."

--William Burford, A Beginning (1966)

Portable pocket puffin.