The long day has ended in which so much
And so little had happened.
Great hopes were dashed,
Then halfheartedly restored once again.
Mirrors became animated and emptied,
Obeying the whims of chance.
The hands of the church clock moved,
At times gently, at times violently.
Night fell. The brain and its mysteries
Deepened. The red neon sign
FIREWORKS FOR SALE came on on a roof
Of a grim old building across the street.
A nearly leafless potted plant,
No one ever waters or pays attention to,
Cast its shadow on the bedroom wall
With what looked to me like joy.
The peacock sigh of the train,
the gulping of trainwheels,
high saw of a motorbike
were my homecoming.
A kind man with warts took the baggage.
The moiety of a dream
still writhed within
to piece itself together.
How could a name, a grave,
bells, and a few trollop images,
hold? I set my face to speak.
Where’d You Go Bernadette: Maria Semple
Primarily known as an illustrator of children’s books, Hatsuyama was also a successful sōsaku-hanga artist. During the mid-thirties, as Japanese society became more and more militarized, he stopped making illustrations because he objected to creating propaganda pictures for children, and he devoted his energy to prints instead. Only after the war did Hatsuyama return to illustrating and book design.
Autographed books in stock! From the top: The Tenth of December by George Saunders, Rookie Yearbook 2 by Tavi Gevinson, The Kraus Project by Jonathan Franzen, This is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz, The Summer Without Men by Siri Hustvedt, The Future by Al Gore, Doomed by Chuck Palahniuk, Dissident Gardens by Jonathan Lethem, NW by Zadie Smith, and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket by Edgar Allan Poe — wait a second…
Collect and recollect. These things I do
within, where, present with me is the world
and whatever I could think of it,
and what I have forgotten. Some things
I buried, though they seemed self-buried,
or slipped out of my mind when they had
glided further into me as I believed
them gone. Once my mouth had been aroused
by the side of a man’s thumb moving over it,
the image fixed in me by that impress
recalls the hand, or my heightening,
as if I know my lover when I have him,
or when I have no one. In this way
my mind contains my body and can keep
in mind delight, whether I revisit with the
pleasure of my body, or I revisit thinking
my sad thoughts, or I keep back my desire
like the broken animals.