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In the beginning was the world.
Then the new world.
Then the new world order,
which resembles the old one
doesn’t it? Its crumbling aqueducts.
Its trinkets and shingles.
Its pathways smothered in fog.
If all we’ve done is blink a bit
and touch things,
notice how dust describes
a tin can by not falling
where it sits—or how a red sleeve
glimpsed through curtains
mimics the tip of a whispering
tongue, was the whole day a waste
or can worth be conferred
on a less than epic urge? Bow-wow
says the doggie on page two.
Ahoy says the sailor.
Arise says the tired queen,
and face the highway,
the donut shops, and the boardwalk.
It rained today, and you can see perfect
inversions of streetlights
suspended in the drops on the window.
You can see the skyline
trying to hold up the sky.
Don’t tell me there’s another,
better place. Don’t tell me
there’s a sea
above our dreaming sea
and through the windows of heaven
the rains come down.
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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.