Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not
starring Adam Sandler,
great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini,
Children of Paradise, Ikiru, Open City.
This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing
people thinking,
the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots,
sadness and silliness,
silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one
logical
lucid progression. Deep art.
I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something
with hydroxyapatite
that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of
sweetness, an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or
fallen angel
any form from which death might abstain or forego
appetite.
Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my
practice. Looking for solutions to the equations.
Learning the changes then forgetting them.
The expressions emanating from mortal minds are
broken stamens, sticky stigmas.
Striving for immortality,
some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don
Quixote)
says he understands and it's alright.
I will read what he wrote and probably agree
but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts.
True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts.
Unchanging and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass
them on as heirlooms.
To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and
unsharing electrons, disrobing
and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle
twice. Did Wim
give each thought its own voice or use the same voice
for all thoughts, every whim.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very good writing, thanks, Happy New Year 2015.