All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace – Richard Brautigan
I walked alone in the chill of dawn
while my mind leapt, as the teachers
of detachment say, like a drunken
monkey. Then a gray shape, an owl,
passed overhead. An owl is not
like a crow. A crow makes convivial
chuckings as it flies,
but the owl flew well beyond me
before I heard it coming, and when it settled, the bough did not sway.
Home might be a studio in a loft in Tribeca, a room in Provincetown, an office in Normal, Illinois. Home is anywhere my mind catches fire, my body. Where language trembles and burns.
–Carole Maso, Break Every Rule: Essays on Language, Longing, and Moments of Desire
No anger. And so I sat with my body, my slumped shoulders,
not quite degraded with despair, rather tired with no direction
to shrug. No indignation. No addiction. No victimhood. I awoke
one morning and stared out the window. I stared and wondered,
What the fuck will I do next?
The lack of anger is the loneliest burden to bear.