Do you ever find yourself waking up
in another country on some other bed
that I am not a part of and wonder
which of my blue shirts I will wear today
Or what the Sunday girls think about
in the months of Hong Kong?
Oaxaca felt like a daydream when
I still remembered them but who
Would have thought I would find Anne
Frank there, crying in the valleys. Is it
awful if I am addicted to the sky and find
portraits of your neck in every solitary cloud?
Why am I to blame if I do not prefer the
Pacific over wars unless I am a bike ride
away from your bedroom door? I do not
care where you hide the clocks but if you
Ever put sugar in your coffee in the
mornings, I hope that I am the first to know.
“Huddled within one of the most influential theories of human desire and the destiny of democracy is an image of history and its future. This image is of a horizon…When humankind finally reaches the horizon it has been producing through the battle for recognition, the thing that emerges is not the same thing that had created it. What had distinguished humans from nonhuman animals changes. The thing that inhabits the surround is not an animal. But it is also not human. The Last Man is the end of Man.”
After the Last Man: Images and Ethics of Becoming Otherwise
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.