A Book of Prophecies
I took this photo two days ago, but I have been working on the new house for the past few days, so I haven't had time to write about it. I don't have much time this morning.
I have a memory, though, from two mornings ago, when I took this photo, of having had some kind of story to tell about it. It had to do with the some event that occurred around the time I read it. Now I can remember neither when I bought it nor what that story was. I probably made it up.
Maybe it had to do with a poem I wrote that took off from reading the Hotel Wentley Poems. I stole the last line of my poem from "A poem for record players." But I don't think that has anything to do with this book. I guess it is possible I bought this book at around the same time I wrote that poem, but I have no way to tell.
Anyhow, by this time next week I'll be writing these in yet another space in yet another home. This will be the fourth, and final location, for Aimless Reading. Get ready.
from A Book of Prophecies
Under the Moon
When will love come
with all the dreams
I have worshipped, again
its players blind, stalks in
without being asked
takes us in its arms for a little while,
then lets us drop, after so short a time,
leaving us broken, weeping on stones.
After the sunlit afternoons, what then,
the midnight paramours, in fleabag tenements,
oh yes, what then is left to do, where to go?
Oh god, what has become of me, where is the self
that used to flock to bars, always seeking
for the partner, gone, turned away...
(Note: I am not sure if the poem on the following page of the book is a continuation of this one or not. It probably is, but I don't have time to type out the rest!)