[7] These are some sounds of Neruda:

In that vine of the familiars I have keys for the father of my parent O! Pain of an era in that of no eras Taxiways of a kill for no evolving cause Pork in the wagon over tiers of tarragon.

To key my library Era Compact Firm Ark ado Come one new blank Entreat a bier Come one new rose Era. Nose sense. Infinity.

[6] Gramophone spindle revolving on sheets of shellac, the way some folks scratch out a living, playing with knifes in that dark room of his throat, sour breath of whiskey, baby in a blue sequined dress pouring her liquid body over his chest, nights when sweat drips on tables like rain, cigarettes too raw to smoke, tar on the tongue, tires squealing as notes drive through the tail wind of sixty foot truck liners, driving all night to see momma before sundown, smell of shaving lotion, Jimmy Jim’s calloused hands on the back of his bent neck, mud through which rivers drag the dead at their bottom, dimes for cokes and long distance calls from the diner with pink neon, she done gone, no one to call no more, litany blowing through the horn, got some change to spare man, all he needs is a beer, in this wino town there is nothing to do, the breeze has been long since shot in the alley behind Bethel Salvation Church, Holy Mother of God he sho is gonna kill the bitch with his frozen hands, ass in the can, red face police daddy’s knuckles caressing his face, start to get a tattoo, history craved in flesh and bone, no mo forgetting all this not worth remembering, head in the hands, spinning out some blues for he and you.

[5] Ends of the year blues, hours drag heavy through the bare trees like the dimmed sun. One part of this dark brain is spewing away ticker tape. The same words that I have confronted for years now, almost ten: this life is won’t worth living this way, this day, I hear them said in a glancing echo, as one might hear the sound of falling snow.

So I sit and feed it philosophy, Buddha’s mainly. Life is suffering, and that there is a way out of here, this too shall pass etc. What is this love for words, but a stay against despair, ballast to make this ship on the trackless sea float, another addiction that is not a solution? If madness is a leaving train from the station of unbearable weight, then this madness of mine never leaves, the clocks keep running backwards from the departure time.

Once on the couch of a shrink, I was asked how often did I have suicidal thoughts? “Quite frequently”, I answered. This human pageant with its daily parade quite often appears to be meaningless to me. Then again more words, not from him, but from someone else; the purpose of life is to magnify God. But where the devil is God?