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When a blackbird flies in the white sky
close your eyes to see
a black sky
swallowing a white bird.
Augustine’s inkblot, a blackbird,
sinking into the page.
He whispers, “privatio” to the wind.
A shadow across
a field of stones.
Night lifts, the child
sunk in blankets still dreaming
The haiku’s last two syllables,
after shadows, after stones,
In the boundless sunlight
I held up my hand and found
a black as black as any puddle in the dark
where the blackbird drinks.
As the balloon rises we forget
everything we know of blackbirds.
The child groans after each cough,
lung weary and ensnared.
I hear from my bed
his heave of wind, like a blackbird
flapping, tangled in string,
unable to rise.
Beneath blackbirds flying
as I walked by
“Not the shadow,”
said the worm
in the valley
“but its bite.”
The old man wearing only
a blackbird black overcoat
spreads his wings…
Wrath boiled me in winter
and the rock I heaved
into the cloud covered sky
at its falling shattered the tree
There are no more blackboards in schoolrooms.
The earth is no blackbird nor the night sky its wing flying.
The earth is but a mote
in the eye of the blackbird.
The day after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Steve Buscemi (top left), who worked as a firefighter from 1980-1984, showed up at his old fire station, Engine Company No. 55 in the Little Italy section of New York.
For the next week he worked 12-hour shifts, digging through the rubble trying to find the bodies of missing firefighters, all the while refusing to do interviews or have his picture taken.
“It was a privilege to be able to do it,” the 45-year-old actor said. “It was great to connect with the firehouse I used to work with and with some of the guys I worked alongside. And it was enormously helpful for me because while I was working, I didn’t really think about it as much, feel it as much.
“It wasn’t until I stopped that I really felt the full impact of what had happened. It would have been much harder for me to get through it if I hadn’t been able to do that.”
– text and photo via @Alex_Ogle
Kept that one quiet. *looks meaningfully at sean penn*
Q: I’ve read some of your early, college-era poems and the humor part is missing. How did your style develop?
AB: The humor part was missing because in college I was a tall drink of gaiety. I had a cute girlfriend, a dad who let me buy things but lived hundreds of miles away, good grades, a Walkman and a convertible 1963 Volkswagen. Nothing yet had gone wrong. I hadn’t been exposed to the deep well of horror that is human life, especially the horror that is myself.