Smoky, lasting

moments of a mind’s

imaginations

Borgesian

Swedenborgian

monologues, thriving voices

Christopher Marlowe

returned

alive

at 33

behind

the red curtain of an

Elizabethan theater

…

I sit here tub-side

happily sipping

the sacred hookah

all by

myself

…

She thought to herself

as red-gray twilight

sleds across the ramparts

above the city’s

hidden, broken corners

…

When I tend to go

I tend to go

out through

my tiny bathroom

window with

sweet breezes

and dying voices

on my wings

…

Laughing children

down by

the street.

This city,

the shadows of

its faulty gates,

this city, from

the beginning

until

the never-ending

…

On the glacial

prairie lake, on

the gentle prairie, from

the hookah, these

whispers on unendingness do

bend into my ears again,

again, again,

killing me slowly

…

Because no one

knows, the thoughts

continued

thinking, when the deadly

end will come

to this broken-down road

of a world

…

No, no one

knows,

nobody but Him,

the hookah and

the sweet breezes

and the warm running

waters whispered

…

Send me home

when it’s my time,

when it’s my

time my Will will be

going from

me

away where I came

from

…

There is not a

single reason

for anything, and

never was, including for

life itself

(and that is one

of the things

God knows)

…

Let me be brave, let

me

be brave, mother and father,

like

Socrates

when their poison cup gets handed

my way

every day

…

Dale Williams Barrigar (Images also by DWB and the excellent music selection as well!)