I'm listening to Hurt, which Johnny Cash now sings: the needle's in his voice, a ghost lends him its wings, and even with the clash of everything that swings, I taste the host of earth, its bittertaste that stings, the rash that breaks the flesh with loss of love's old things, the never-ending aftermath of crash, and, like an emblem of it all, the ring's gold lying broken in the tarmac's gash.
Because of the no one that you are must crack in empire's dirt that clings, time wields its lash to seal your gaping's hole with sightless black.
The tuning of those keys and strings unbinds his voice to disappear in other minds.
Justin Clemens / East Brunswick / Lecturer / 40
Li isso no trem outro dia.
Estava colado na parede, ao lado do mapa que indicava as linhas, conexoes e destinos de todos nos ali em silencio, enquanto eu ouvia Johnny Cash no iPod.
Cabeca longe, paisagem de filme noir la fora. Todos os tons de cinza eram borrados pela velocidade do trem - ou do pensamento?
Era trazido de volta ao meu assento por sons de Bollywood vindos de celulares barulhentos.
The next station is: Southern Cross.
Ok, then.
