At one time, for a time.

Theme by Theme Static
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
T.S. Elliot, lines 37-41, from The Waste Land


Collage for Nathaniel Whitcomb! 

© 2013 Sarah Eisenlohr
Magazine collage

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Philip Lamantia

Philip Lamantia

It’s summer’s moment in autumn’s hour.
I walk over a carpet of leaves
Fallen on a hill overlooking the city
Watching the clouded moon cut
Like a white diamond
across the sky.
Philip Lamantia, Untitled. From Ekstasis (1959) 
In all its raucous impudence
Life writhes, cavorts in pallid light,
With little cause or consequence;
Charles Baudelaire, “The End of the Day”, from Les Fleurs Du Mal




Lucien Clergue


Lucien Clergue

Agfa Optima, 1960 Vintage camera in 35 mm.

I will not go when she calls
even if she says “I love you”,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
but love love.

The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
even my arm throws no shadow,
it too is consumed with light.

But this word “love”-
this word grows dark, grows
heavy and shakes itself, begins
to eat, to shudder and convulse
its way through this paper
until we too have dimmed in
its transparent throat and still
are riven, are glistening, hip and thigh, your
loosened hair which knows
no hesitation.

Raymond Carver, This Word Love, from A New Path to the Waterfall
What am I doing here, what is the point of these smiles and gestures? My home is neither here nor elsewhere. And the world has become merely unknown landscape where my heart can lean on nothing. Foreign—who can know what this word means?
Albert Camus, from Notebooks 1935-1942 (Modern Library, 1965)

Dark matter

is a black widow,

always eating what she kills

because it is yours when

you can do what you

want with it.

We are worms on a hook,

abated by

the realization of a


that all this existence

may only be

a map, and not

a place,

an endless chasm

constantly devouring

its own outwardness.  

Some things 

call to me

over tiny flowers

splitting rocks.

I have forgotten

and yet can see

clearly enough

some things


to the sky.

Give me time

and the whole 

world will become

my ocean.

It’s the love

of love that

swallows and 


all things

and every man

who wants to die 

in his bed

with the scent

of salted roses.

Turning 25 in the year of the horse. Born in the year of the snake.