Departure at Terminal Similarity
Sunrise,
Fritz Lang, 1999
“I, in one of those buses filled with people you could never imagine to see at the beach, wonder and wander aloud about the conservative danger, have in my hands a black plastic dustpan,
And I, busboy,”
I, bus boy,
Isaac Asimov, 1933
“have, in my hands, gathering dust, Pan, pipes, flutes, small Greek children drinking in queens, playing the Gypsy Moroccan lingering melodies left-turning hat wearing face of God seeing, playing through the coal black speaker system who is allowed to talk to me, against some corporate policy or another, who is allowed to talk, first I throw away the food and it begins:”
The End of The Night,
Nikos Kazantzakis, 1934
“in ink spills from the plate she left trying to eat with a smile food becomes the reflection of shopping, strip mall full choice menu’s on the highway by ways of the gas guzzling emotions, choice cut stripper drinks with aesthetic-sized vision-minister server give me a tip, get back to the fucking country she says”
And I’m Back Inside The Apothecary,
Theodore Dreiser, 1935
“Dustpan with scratched black edges (plastic broken looking glass gatherings backward narcissus [a whole more vast than the Nebraska sandlot and the empty distance to Mars] leaning back half tasted caramel tart of drastic youth): two girls voices at the edge of the restaurant: what if the wow-ness is over and its like boring, they did it at the beach, how could he ever like me, like I’m not going to do it at the beach, I used to love shopping, lets go to Dexter and transfer to the 358”
Congressional Record, June 18, 1936“Pan, dusted moment: sweet worth less nothing, scribbled in the air of the diners who thoughtlessly thought no one could listen enough to hear their sweet worthless nothings (you never loved me, you little fat fuck, how could you, I never should have been [we hold back laughter] can I get a new fork, I can’t believe you are treating me this way on my birthday, why are such a bitch, what, you asshole, I don’t like roses, [every breaks up after a number 4 with a side of eggs] I think I’m pregnant, that’s not possible, if I had known you, are you done eating that, you should watch your weight, how about you watch my ass walking, oh like the day we met?, when the world was so much younger, the day had so much more potential energy for regret, I just want you to say something, something more than this silence, this sweet worthless nothingness that never should have been”
Untitled Screenplay,
William Faulkner, 1937
“lipstick lids left when impassioned embrace was the opposite of hate [baby vomit filled shoes, does he miss them?] discarded memories too difficult to keep all these swept up notes tossed in disgrace, forgotten retainers and tourist maps now gathered in plastic black bags with holes, a mop, and bleached floor washes away those infinite shapes made by drops from angered tears held back in the back of heartbreak:
or
more precisely,
an evening of preludes,”
Napkin Conversations And Stained Remains On Formica Floors,
T. S. Eliot, 1938
“When She Kicked It
before walking out on him at five
and her coat check and check
passed by
the front door horseman
so desperate to unbreathe
such suffocating supplication
and its complacent continues,
the parabolic curve of his clean
clean eyes”
Lipstick On A Half,
James M. Cain, 1939
“glass of wine, is there any less hope any where in this vast moment becoming history? Maybe in that tossed phone number of unsolicited intent, adding up, as always, to a negative. Maybe in the pencil left by the old lady who tips a dollar every two beers on the third Saturday of every other month. Maybe, in the detritus of wonder, where all chaos goes, is the great hopeless form from which all desire crumbles like coffee cake remnants uneaten, maybe may be”
Into The Trash, A Hat,
Muriel Rukeyser, 1940
“the wet sweet smell of a small dark spot whiskey’d away by a colorful beach towel, the smell tells me it’s covered in a teaspoon of bleach and this night will soon end as I wander outside the outline of my simple book of a job with a listless lean and wait against an exterior wall, just out of the street lamp with it’s fake gasoline smile, against and beyond the pale, wall, listening to the last cellophane caller making notes in their departure about the service and the smile and the closing music getting louder, closing past eleven, and there inside sit that last couple of two
peephole
in silence coming to their end in a bottle of red to go off into the black night, where”
I Am Waiting Outside, Eye in Their Eventual Departing,
Steven Spielberg, 1941
“the nicotine swirls in lines out of wind
against a hundred backgrounds
of milky shooting stars
and distant red lights of airplane flights
back inside my mind, the mice are making
another midnight run around
the unlighted restaurant of night
hoping for some unbleached spark
dropped off the half-eaten
dinner role
under table 6,
feeding his children poetry good night,
The Small Rain Down Can Rain,
Wilfred Owen, 1918-1942
Venom and protein,
in her bed again.
Sunrise,
Fritz Lang, 1999
“I, in one of those buses filled with people you could never imagine to see at the beach, wonder and wander aloud about the conservative danger, have in my hands a black plastic dustpan,
And I, busboy,”
I, bus boy,
Isaac Asimov, 1933
“have, in my hands, gathering dust, Pan, pipes, flutes, small Greek children drinking in queens, playing the Gypsy Moroccan lingering melodies left-turning hat wearing face of God seeing, playing through the coal black speaker system who is allowed to talk to me, against some corporate policy or another, who is allowed to talk, first I throw away the food and it begins:”
The End of The Night,
Nikos Kazantzakis, 1934
“in ink spills from the plate she left trying to eat with a smile food becomes the reflection of shopping, strip mall full choice menu’s on the highway by ways of the gas guzzling emotions, choice cut stripper drinks with aesthetic-sized vision-minister server give me a tip, get back to the fucking country she says”
And I’m Back Inside The Apothecary,
Theodore Dreiser, 1935
“Dustpan with scratched black edges (plastic broken looking glass gatherings backward narcissus [a whole more vast than the Nebraska sandlot and the empty distance to Mars] leaning back half tasted caramel tart of drastic youth): two girls voices at the edge of the restaurant: what if the wow-ness is over and its like boring, they did it at the beach, how could he ever like me, like I’m not going to do it at the beach, I used to love shopping, lets go to Dexter and transfer to the 358”
Congressional Record, June 18, 1936“Pan, dusted moment: sweet worth less nothing, scribbled in the air of the diners who thoughtlessly thought no one could listen enough to hear their sweet worthless nothings (you never loved me, you little fat fuck, how could you, I never should have been [we hold back laughter] can I get a new fork, I can’t believe you are treating me this way on my birthday, why are such a bitch, what, you asshole, I don’t like roses, [every breaks up after a number 4 with a side of eggs] I think I’m pregnant, that’s not possible, if I had known you, are you done eating that, you should watch your weight, how about you watch my ass walking, oh like the day we met?, when the world was so much younger, the day had so much more potential energy for regret, I just want you to say something, something more than this silence, this sweet worthless nothingness that never should have been”
Untitled Screenplay,
William Faulkner, 1937
“lipstick lids left when impassioned embrace was the opposite of hate [baby vomit filled shoes, does he miss them?] discarded memories too difficult to keep all these swept up notes tossed in disgrace, forgotten retainers and tourist maps now gathered in plastic black bags with holes, a mop, and bleached floor washes away those infinite shapes made by drops from angered tears held back in the back of heartbreak:
or
more precisely,
an evening of preludes,”
Napkin Conversations And Stained Remains On Formica Floors,
T. S. Eliot, 1938
“When She Kicked It
before walking out on him at five
and her coat check and check
passed by
the front door horseman
so desperate to unbreathe
such suffocating supplication
and its complacent continues,
the parabolic curve of his clean
clean eyes”
Lipstick On A Half,
James M. Cain, 1939
“glass of wine, is there any less hope any where in this vast moment becoming history? Maybe in that tossed phone number of unsolicited intent, adding up, as always, to a negative. Maybe in the pencil left by the old lady who tips a dollar every two beers on the third Saturday of every other month. Maybe, in the detritus of wonder, where all chaos goes, is the great hopeless form from which all desire crumbles like coffee cake remnants uneaten, maybe may be”
Into The Trash, A Hat,
Muriel Rukeyser, 1940
“the wet sweet smell of a small dark spot whiskey’d away by a colorful beach towel, the smell tells me it’s covered in a teaspoon of bleach and this night will soon end as I wander outside the outline of my simple book of a job with a listless lean and wait against an exterior wall, just out of the street lamp with it’s fake gasoline smile, against and beyond the pale, wall, listening to the last cellophane caller making notes in their departure about the service and the smile and the closing music getting louder, closing past eleven, and there inside sit that last couple of two
peephole
in silence coming to their end in a bottle of red to go off into the black night, where”
I Am Waiting Outside, Eye in Their Eventual Departing,
Steven Spielberg, 1941
“the nicotine swirls in lines out of wind
against a hundred backgrounds
of milky shooting stars
and distant red lights of airplane flights
back inside my mind, the mice are making
another midnight run around
the unlighted restaurant of night
hoping for some unbleached spark
dropped off the half-eaten
dinner role
under table 6,
feeding his children poetry good night,
The Small Rain Down Can Rain,
Wilfred Owen, 1918-1942
Venom and protein,
in her bed again.