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 Reflections on Infinity Email Article To a Friend View Printable Version 
 From:  shoshana  
 Dated:  Thursday, July 01 2004 @ 12:50 AM Eastern Daylight Time
Reflections on Infinity

Stuck behind glass walls
there is no light outside
or maybe it's just a hell of a lot brighter in here
so I see
me
and my reflection,
and over again.

reflection
upon
reflection,
until I am very small
in repetition
and still shrinking
into that oblivion
called
infinity.

Waiting,
straining
to see into that verifiable everything
where all is nothing.

Where framed in these
portals of eternity
I am no more.

Until my head gets in the way.

-----------------------
The above is another of Amir's poems written during high school. Amir told me he was inspired by the infinity of reflections created by our then new mirrored bathroom. I love that he wrote a poem about that.


   

 THE TORMENT OF GOOD TIDINGS Email Article To a Friend View Printable Version 
 From:  Anonymous  
 Dated:  Wednesday, March 31 2004 @ 12:11 AM Eastern Standard Time
THE TORMENT OF GOOD TIDINGS

His are not the first woes,
nor the first conflict with these perpetual foes.
His is not real pain.
"No, not construction paper cuts and crashing planes,"
They said, and came in out of the rain.
"A rat bit my foot off and it will never be the same."

They would dare to take pity away,
Would strip everything else with which his psyche could play:
The addictive intoxicant of the lonely moon,
Stars that pierce the whiteness of the hospital room.
"It's real, I heard it in a song!"
Dare say, "The black angel's lyre rang wrong."

What are angels when God is gone?
A pathetic delusion of the self,
Santa Claus and his little Arctic elves.

And so the affliction got worse.
The wound festered, ready to burst:
The mother cried,
the father sighed,
pilfered the essence of our price;
relatively, it's been a regretfully easy ride.
No hunger.
No rain.
No guns nor knives.
Where are the Hitlers of our lives?
Ensconced in this ethereal void,
My only friend is an android.
The spirit is draining fast
under our feet and back in the past.
No more slaves to split the sea.
Tortured Jesus we'd rather be
Than master of this backward dog.

Resigned, we sleep like logs.

--Amir Lopatin

   

 JOURNEY I Email Article To a Friend View Printable Version 
 From:  Anonymous  
 Dated:  Tuesday, March 30 2004 @ 12:07 PM Eastern Standard Time
JOURNEY I

There should be silence in your song.
The clergy has it all wrong.
Seven heavens in five spheres.
All prostrate to such dastardly fears.
Me, I've had enough of these books.
There's another way to look...

can't you hear:

the silent cry
of clouds in the sky
warns us not to try.
these museums are filled with lies.
Can't you see:

You embrace her phony face;
even Holden is a disgrace,
trying to find love in this place.

why wait?

the story never ends
until the fabric screen rends
with sounds of What do? Where to? Why-when?
and sleep is all you can comprehend.

in this place:

Can't you see
your concrete tomb?
Off the bus
there's more room.

At last

You have found the door.
I thought you were lost,
when they made that wall.
Windows are not big enough for you and me
Out here on the perimeter, we are free?

(but are we?
Never free,
not in the periphery,
not you,
not me.
"Further," said the bus.)

but must we?

then further we shall go,
past the periphery where the voices of buses wax low,
and instead just stars
(too hard to count),
no cars,
the heavenly cacophony of the space between light.

At last

We have gone beyond
Where all that is black expels all that is it.
It collides with calculators
and Pi rains down to a million trillion digits.
Fools open their mouths and swallow it up.

why wait?

For the others to finish dancing,
Fourth dimensional treadmills are for those that ask the
Questions.
The answers have no need to understand
because (no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers'
dirty looks)
they are free.

can't you see:

that this place is big enough for you and me,
as long as we embrace infinity.
the closer we come,
the more room there'll be.

can't you hear:

the music is very high,
too high for the sleeping ears of women and men,
it is the rhythmic piercing of the pig's fly-infested head
by children with spears dancing round irregular septagons.

The music is too loud to dance to,
But yet the fools ignore and continue.
The light is bright and beautifully mad.
and so the its and others sleep in the shade.
but for you and me, together has departed;
this journey into pure existence has started.

--Amir Lopatin

   

 THE LAST PIECE OF UNDERWEAR Email Article To a Friend View Printable Version 
 From:  Anonymous  
 Dated:  Tuesday, March 30 2004 @ 08:29 AM Eastern Standard Time
The Last Piece of Underwear

Last night, Mommy said--
all bedecked in cotton--
"We have no more money
for underwear."
"We have no more of those little
trains on those little bloomers for you."
Me?
Me, always so proud of my underoos,
My supermans, my spidermans.
My mans.
No more underwear???
No more. . .
So I tore off that last pair of Hanes I had left.
It was only white, not even colored.
Then danced naked,
little pecker waving in the breeze.

Amir Lopatin