(For interested parties: video section of paper's website.)
What is ironic about the way or tone Dawkins promotes his ideas regarding atheism and evolution is that he often sounds eerily dogmatic you think he's about to start his own religion, a fourth and official addition to the eternal triumvirate: Christianity, Islam, and Judaism.
I am on the left-turn pocket, about to make a left. The wait hair-splits seconds to infinity, a very physical experience of eternity on a street-intersection, the kind in which your life feels trapped, and there is only one direction, there, into the abyss of the left, into its freedoms, chaos. I see faces in the cars, on the other direction, faces of pursuit, aggression, those who'd confess their day in frantic phone calls later, unnecessary calls they have to make just to have someone to talk to, to feel linked, networked. They are wearing sunglasses, as though to leave the sun out of their directions, ignore its illuminations, consider them distractions, nuisance. I am in the intersection of 5:00pm and 5:01pm, the intersection of life as abstract and life as material, bad decisions and worst decisions, fiction and non-fiction, poetry and reality. In a moment, I could crash, collide into another dream in the making, a city official, a president of a porn-company, a thief trying to be the best thief in the world, or a horny man having phone sex on his cell-phone. My life is on the line, and there are no lines to read in-between those lines. Am I in someone's surveillance camera? Am I in a movie-production set? I make the sign of the cross. Soon, I let that sign fade to insignificance, to the shadows of other crosses I've made before. The light is green, is yellow, is red, the color of anything, an empty sign, emptied of sunsets, death, crime, failure, genesis of ironies, the erotics of daily life, birth, or as myth before flights to nowhere.
Reviewers & Contributors
Albert B. Casuga
John Herbert Cunningham
Kathryn K. Stevenson
Kristina Marie Darling
Margaret H. Johnson
Nicholas T. Spatafora
Patrick James Dunagan
The garden, in this picture, might not necessarily qualify as a neglected garden, to her, because there's still life in it, still saturated with green. On the other hand, it's possible she'd put this somewhere on the top of her list, particularly because of the one flower visible here, still red, but appears withering out of its color. It's a fitting representation of Miss Havisham's interior life, disintegrating, expanding under shadows of great expectations once nurtured in love.
He grew orchids on his roof
and slept there in an August
of derelict hotels burning, smoke
rushing up like a gutted down pillow
into streets thick and red with ambulances
screaming the air raw and bleeding.
Kate Braverman ("By Madness Wooed")
its life cinders on
until this ultimate imploding,
one deafening blast to climax rite
as loved ones writhe, ashen
in their own consumed shells,[...]
Ophelia Alcantara Dimalanta ("One Final Burning")
Her eyes have made a loyalist of me.
On the last day of winter, is it natural
my future resembles lime grapes? What cost
will I pay for the rapture of a solarium?
I wouldn’t have thought I’d fall so easily for
bejeweled eddies. I am seduced by the fever coming
off the shores of her eyelids. My inbox is oblivious
to my steadfast gaze. As they say in Petra, I prefer
you cut into the hillside of my mountain, which means
your face is the coastline to my dreams.
Major Jackson ("Here The Sea")
And memories sleep
Like mammoths in lost caves. [...]
Cecil Day Lewis ("Departure In The Dark")
Awake, I strike a word against the dark
like a match. This could be the past
we are leaving. Buses on high beams;
wild eyes that ride down the road’s
unpromising narrative. The sky at a loss
for stars, thick as a foreign tongue.
Cyril Wong ("Night Bus")