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I remember your face in the cigarette smoke
drifted and turned. I remember my baptism
at your mouth—labor of blackened tendons,
of hooks and eyes to drag a shape, the glutinous
tissues jumping to sound: it must be your heart
began as light as cork and dead to sound, then, sounding,
went out, down, dragging the face and its illusory
life. Some fossils leave a living coelacanth,
momentary residue, and though you’d disapprove,
inside my mouth your stone fish rise and sing.
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How would I know / when I’m empty and quiet like breath?
Historian Gerald Horne has developed a grand theory of U.S. history as a series of devastating backlashes to progress—right down to the present day.
Reflecting on three monumental works of modernism—James Joyce’s Ulysses, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—a hundred years on.