I feel a little guilty. I am coping with some rather personal stressful stuff at the moment, and to unwind, I have started to watch the Breaking Bad season as it starts up again, on Netflix. I had thought to write another critical love poem to this greatest of TV shows, to compare it to Shakespeare, to speak of how Heisenberg - that co-opted alias - is now synonymous with complex evil, as Iago was. But then I think of Egypt - and a far more complex evil swims into view - or rather, a more evil complexity - for politics and people seem to mix badly some times, and there seems no clear answer in that tragic moment for that great country - because of such confusing paradoxes - the legitimate government was overthrown for being a tyranny in utero, and the new saving revolution is seemingly more steeped in blood than the last guardians of so-called Democracy. How to praise the depiction of one man's ruination, when in the history of today, unfolding, we see a whole nation's self-immolation. Perhaps that is too grand. But I did think I wanted to write it out.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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