Said the Grim Ghoul to the Twilight-tree, "Life, life moves, time sands still, I have learned, leaned this as a ghoul—for I fly from twilight, thru twilight—never seeing a full-dawn, or full-dusk, nor a full-horizon, or that of a day's bright sun.

"My flight is of life—not time….” (Thus, the tree now gazeed up, and it was full-dusk, and the ghoul was gone.)

And when the ghoul returned, the tree was dead— ashes and roots, soot and soil, all about. The gist of it, he thought wound never end, for he was cursed with everlasting twilight, eternal domination.

Lost indeed, lost he was between the moon and sun;

a thread into the invisible world, under solitude and haunting stars; this mindless, disembodied ghoul, was only a wound to his soul, he lived in a blind-black aimless pattern: an inescapable unnoted twilight.

So he cursed the cosmos, saying, "There is no dead just the dying, and us twilight-ghouls!...”

#1049 12/29/05

Commentar

y [Inner landscape]: in poetry, in my poetry I should say, there is not not not not not not not always plot or dialogue that sustains it, nor is it always in my short stories. Nor is it necessary I believe to have movement. We use the mind, the spinning mind like a yoyo; thus, sometimes we must let the protagonist think out loud, and forget about the inventing action and dialogue. When we look at landscape as I have in the past, I do not see it as from Minnesota or Peru, where I live, but rather from the inner landscape in my mind; perhaps it has a voice, it is itself the hero to me, possibly it doesn't need anything else.

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