D. Harris Biography

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And then at last I set about to work at it. My hands scoring its rough surface and delving into the heart of the thing to find what I sought; to create what I would; to build a thing of wonder and beauty. I slept not for days on end and when finally my work was finished I looked upon it and wondered how I had done it. Looking into the heart of light, the silence (these words I stole from a man greater than myself as I gazed upon my labor of love and whispered them softly; so softly for I must be dreadfully careful not to disturb the rest of that thing which I had created; not to mar its beauty) .
How long I stared at my creation I know not for I only stared until my eyes ceased to see and, as phantom memories floated up through the cracks in the floor and that thing which I had made began to fade into the pale darkness of the room in which I had made it, I wept, though I knew that this would only bring about the end more quickly.
I wept for the loss of that thing which I had created and as I wept I thought on all that it had once been made from: marble pillars, crystal glasses, blazing fires, drowsing waters, yellowing pages from books written long ago and crumbling words from tales told long ago. All these things and more I remembered as I looked at the wreckage of what I had once made, that which no man yet had made; nor would any man see it or believe in its truth for even as I had first thought of fetching a man - perhaps Monsiegneur Khayyam or my dear friend Cacciato or or even a casual acquaintance, someone Innocent or Pious - even as I first thought of fetching one of them, that thing that I had made began to fade quietly into the room in which I had made it, and, soon, soon nothing was left of it but a memory and a shadow of a guess at what it had been that lay across the floors and walls of the temple I had built it in.
At last I had set about to work at it. I had made a thing of beauty, a thing which no man has yet made, and as the failing light of the dawn came through the stained, glass windows, I thought one final time of what I had done and then laid it to rest.
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My memory’s foggy.
It’s hiding,
curling up behind a cigarette haze
of forgetfulness
...

It’s been said
that any man
with a microphone
can tell you
...

helpless in the attic
when I found you
covered in the dust of your age
and the bile of your youth
...