Thursday, February 26, 2009


So much gratitude. The house suffocating under its weight.

I lie awake at night and hear how thankful the silence is, and there is nothing I can say, no words to deny my responsibility, to say it is nothing, nothing, which is true, but a betrayal.

I keep trying to give it away but no one will help.

I fear it may outlive me. I fear I may have to let it.


equivocal said...

Hey you-- some interesting, serious, and exciting risks you're taking with this new bunch of whatchamacallits. This is the one (Undying) I really like because it appears intensely felt but is also open-ended and elusive. Many of the others, while in a nicely aphoristic and terse language, have what to me are cliche insights. The wedding one is nice and certainly not cliche, but formally it also seems to end, like most of the others, on a "punchline"--that I don't know if I like in this context. Is the idea of a punchline an intended part of your form?

Falstaff said...

equivocal: Thanks. Don't know about the wedding one not being cliche, though, I almost left out the lastline because it reminded me too much of Lorca's Blood Wedding.

As for the idea of a punchline being an intended part of the form, that would imply that there is a 'form' or at least an intention - and neither is true. I have no idea what I'm doing with stuff or where, if anywhere, I'm taking it. I just got bored with regular blogging and decided to try something completely different.

equivocal said...

hmmm-- I do think the wedding one would actually be much stronger if you cut the last sentence...