The groan of a chair beneath
him in the afternoon, & those
roses of light that whisper to
him (often in silence) in solitude
that drips from-somewhere
behind you…
Waiting in Kyoto
station for no-one in particular…
The faint-bitterness of coffee
swirls in his brain, & the subtle
neurosis of-being-nowhere at
once (or at least without any
fixed-destination). Volumes piled
on his desk of texts that lit his
mind in evenings.
So often, while
reading Adorno, his life appeared
before him in pockets-of-mem-
ory, flashes-of-instances he had
once forgotten, only to return
as filmy-ghosts that usher him
into his bright accommodations.
A life nourished by the plastic
image, in which past & present
(even future?) swell & fuse into
almost an itch, a slight-tingle that
rings in distances of autumns…
The air cool, & the lonesome
walks through Ikebukuro-streets.
Yes, you had been a teacher…
Ever that soft-light-spills on your
fingers, from a couple-of-bulbs
gone out in the ceiling lamp.
Life (curiously) a tone-poem, that
flows in silent-whispers. & his
sole-window seen from the kit-
chen, into which he may view
the world-theater, where peo-
ple pass by, as if in recognition
of a life that remains-obscure. 
Good one. I like the vividness & sense of immediacy in this. I'm still working on getting through Adorno's Aesthetic Theory.
ReplyDeleteThanks Mr. Olson, & thanks for reading. Coincidentally I'm working my way through Aesthetic Theory now myself~ Haven't had this much fun with a work of philosophy in while. Except for maybe Unamuno's Our Lord Quixote... Good to meet another philosopher-poet~
ReplyDeleteReally should work my way through the rest of your two books I own: The Night I Dropped Shakespeare on the Cat & Backscatter...
ReplyDelete