elemental

I don't know why, but reading Miroslav Holub reminds me of Calvino. Maybe Mr. Palomar. There's something utterly simple about the poems, as if everything is redeemed by the last words. Like the last brick in a wall, the final farewell between friends or loved ones...everything suddenly makes sense, is seen clearly. You breathe again, realize you were caught in the spell of someone else's imagination, and now you must return to life, always return...

The yellow balloon, of course. Our reduced lives. ticking away, atomically. the loose strands of our being, looking for a small hand to pull us back. And all that innocence strays through all that experience.

I'll slip out in front of the curtain, taking
great care not to tangle my strings
in the flies,
I'll jingle my bells (merrily),
doff my cap
and before the puppeteer knows what's happening
I'll speak in my own voice,
you know,
my own voice,
out of my own head,
for the first and last time,
because afterwards they'll put me back in the box,
wrapped in tissue paper.
I'll say what I've wanted to say
for a whole eternity of wood...

~~~

What am I doing here. Without the question mark Chats., what indeed. And where is 'here'.

what is a black man. and what colour is he.

Stop the press. The first genuine 'mouse on the bs.

Meanwhile, back in the jungle...one of my students is now the foreign minister.God help this country!