It was alight and alive, this lazy chain of death,
it was a time be for the Internet hummed and computers listened
from every Middlesex village and farm.
It was on the Hudson River, where the Mohawk stood,
it was morning, it was night, it was anything but the sun.
Arise fair sun, and make the shreds of air recoil into the darkness,
because every man who loved another man, was reticent,
because it was an age not to long before when everything was different.
Mothers did not talk about it, and fathers feared that they would be less of a man.
It was the Republican of all Republicans, and their would be more yet to come,
even the Democrats were Republican, as if anyone knew there name.
“I am the way into the city will
I am the way to enforcing themselves
I am the way to eternal sorrow
sacred justice in my architecture
I was raised here by divine omnipotence
primordial love and ultimate intelligence
only those elements time cannot wear
were made before me and beyond time I stand
Armageddon all hope you will enter here.”
John Ciandi wrote those lines after the Dante, and I didn't yet know Dante,
though I would time time in time to time.
“Per me se va citta dolente
per me se va l'ellelno dolore
per me se va tra la perduteI gente”
We were Raucous we were enthuse, as if nonethuned
We knew we right, the way Dante was right,
and John was wrong, alone with his thoughts about I and I, and I,
as opposed to me and me and me and me.
“Fafner,der wilde Wurm,
lagert im finstren Wald,
mit den furchtbaren Leibes Wucht.”
“We now come to the object of our exercises:”
redefine in terms of connectedness.
And know the time was closer than we dream possible
Closer than we even knew, because old people wanted it, but couldn't speak it's name.
Hot, the breath was on Godel, Escher, and Bach
though you are with people you are alone,
it's okay I understand, this is now never never land,
and staring at the corners of grace,
over the changes of the face,
that strangest of another day,
hard and cold, as if another sun.
that merrily trip to different drummer,
whose beat was different that the stars might know,
though cord and anxious through every point on the curve.
A different drummer from a different time,
where stars and stripes meant different things,
it was the war, the only war, the war to end all wars,
men and women felt differently because they had not known•,
of Vietnam or South Korea, which were different wars from different ages.
Making the anatomy of revelation their theme,
and to in all our societies these radicals were very conscious
and usually very of their small numbers
though cracked the mirror is, they sought as distant,
for who's to say what is distant in the calamitous 14th Century?
When figures that made sense to only them,
winked and popped out of the RAM relevant.
They didn't know the power that it had.
Still trying to avert that last calamity,
such a common word in Chaucer's age.
I have raised the dangers
pleasing round your rock;
Valkyrie you are no longer.
The soda tablet tell it,
nobody back in Bombay really wanted to sue Gabriel
to kill in court the goose that laid the golden eggs.
All parties recognized that the old
projects were no longer capable of being restarted:
actors directors key Krugman's
members even sound stages were otherwise committed.
His wives now made playing to him
that they expected him to fulfill his husband really duties
in particular and worked out a
wrote a system under which he would spend a day
with each one of the girls in turn,
( at the curtain each day and night were converted
such was God of very God,
and Allah was his name, for now.
What would he be tomorrow?
No one would know that and until
the tomorrow that never came.
it was the rage of Jackson by Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr.
A blot upon his sacred word which was pronounced the age of Roosevelt,
and all the holy things it could contain,
He had to write the age of Jackson, because it was der rigeur,
but he did not have the heart for it in the way he wrote
1919-1333: The crisis of the old order,
every solution was a thought one mind said Emerson,
the White House, midnight, Friday, March 3, 1933
across the country the banks of the
nation had gradually shuttered their windows and locked their doors.
The very machinery of the American economy theme to be coming to a stop.
The rich and fertile nation, overflowing with
but bankruptcy of ideas seemed almost the Hmong intellectuals.
To mix metaphors from the beginning until the end.
Every branch and twig was mixed together,
all at once, all of the same time.
All roads lead in our day to Moscow
that was lesson that some drew from 1933.
but the lesson that we drew,
was that in the darkness,
we would have a different kind of hope.
The kind of hope that our grandfather and grandmother knew,
when the world was crashing down.