Shadow Dreams


I do not see you

Though I have tried.

Yesterday, I went with O-

To smell perfumes.

I kept harping on Chanel #5,

Boasting about its nuances.

“It has layers,” I told her and the clerk.

But, we surmised when I actually smelled it again,

That it was passé.

I still loved Egoiste,

But then we smelled every

Jo Malone, but not before

I got to smell perfume on O-.

Her arms are slender.

I held one.

It was warm.

Plus, it had many scents.

It’s really nothing though.

She and I are friends.

We talk about her lovers.

And that long journey she is taking

To find “The One.”

She wants a child;

Her clock is ticking.

I feel for her.

I really do.

She is like a deer,

Runs for hours uphill.

Who can do that?

She claims to have a big heart,

“Which is dangerous,” she said.

I’ll say.

My heart lumbers through the afternoon and evening

Reaching out to passing strangers.

It uses its quiet voice.

With telepathic staging.

I am listening to music I have written and recorded.

It’s tender.

I get lost and disappear.

My friend O- too says that she goes deep into herself

When she listens to it,

Which is quite a compliment

For someone who wears Egoiste.

(I am talking about me, not her.)

She wears or wore Happy,

Which pretty much explains her.

She is the delight of energy,

A positive flow, non-stop and enchanting.

Her smile is a flame.

The kind that warms you,

Not like forest fires or Halloween.

There’s no trick, only treat.

You call his breath a “whim.”

And you try to steal it.

But, apparently it does not matter.

It’s like frivolity to him.

Or an unconscious undertaking.

How do you see him breathing?

Are you in the middle states?

Has the weather changed?

I hear you.

I am sure he does too.

But, if you are doubting it,

I bet he takes you for granted.

I hear you breathing,

And I don’t even know where you are.

Anyway, I like to think that I play like Yo-Yo Ma

When he does the Cello and Bach.

I too am alone like he is

On the stage.

I am playing the piano.

Little fingerings.

I barely touch the keys.

I want to drink absinthe someday,

And pretend I am famous.

I want that yearning you project.

I know it’s completely absurd.

But, O- says I play like Keith Jarrett.

I told her I have always looked up to him.

“He plays for hours,” I told her.

“Just him and the piano.”

He plays work, like that of Mozart,

But I simply play what comes to me,

And I can do it for hours, days, and years, I suspect.

Today, for example, I wrote and recorded about 10 songs,

38 minutes, and 45 minutes yesterday.

I tell you I am on the cusp.

I have to be alone and without any distractions,

Nothing to make me nervous.

I get in the “groove,” I told the audience

At Freight and Salvage.

My hands have to be soft,

Because my fingers stick otherwise.

Sometimes, I will put myself to sleep.

I have listened to music my entire life.

First, my mother took me to the symphony.

I was very young.

People probably wondered if I was going

To cause a fuss.

Instead, I was speechless,

Completely absorbed.

I don’t think I said a word to her.

I must have shown my fascination with my eyes.

I still think of her, my run-way model mother,

The red velvet carpet and seats.

I am pretty sure she wore a long black cocktail dress.

Her hair was up and she had long black gloves.

My mother used to date a famous handsome Mayor

Of San Francisco before she met my dad, the doctor.

She did her own thing.

Anyway: “Do you hear me being here?”

I am somewhere near you and breathing too.

Every word you say.

I try to touch and keep;

Obviously, I am not being discreet.

I have no time for that nor decorum.

I believe in the truth of the heart,

To tremble in the shadows.

I lie to myself.

I like to think that if

I pay attention,

You will see.

I make a world for us.

I dream of shadows.

Inspired by:


Mario Savioni’s Thoughts on: Poetry, Language, Thought by Martin Heidegger

Poery Language Thought

A friend asked me what I thought of Heidegger’s book Poetry, Language, Thought. I didn’t know what to say, I was a few pages in and had to admit to myself that I wasn’t so much as paying attention to what Heidegger was saying but to how he was saying it. I have read his Being and Time, The Essence of Truth, and What is Called Thinking? Similar themes had come to me, but I really wasn’t paying attention, which was wrong since it was not about what I found in Being and Time, which is about the trillions and trillions of activities, thoughts, and so fourth going on at once in life. Imagine that. It is like there are trillions of you going through the same thoughts and feelings simultaneously and they are just as valuable as people and just as interesting and perhaps more. That’s amazing to me.

What I like to do with a book is to think about its title. He is talking about three things. Those things are equal to each other in terms of the grammatical presence of commas. Poetry comes first, language second, and thought third.

What does Heidegger mean when he talks about Poetry?

He says it “memorializes” and “responds to life.” It is “genuine thinking,” “speaks of truth,” “is the unconcealedness of beings” (which he speaks about in The Essence of Truth), “a correctness of a proposition” (also spoken of in The Essence of Truth), “what things actually are,” “that which aids in seeing the bright possibility of the world,” “an absolute connection to the actual event,” “what is spoken but what is never what is said.” Poetry that thinks, he said, “breeds perfect ideas,” “elaborates upon something much greater than reality,” a “thingly character,” “the core of something,” “words buried in its nature,” and “the real.”

What does Heidegger mean when he talks about Language?

He is talking about “where thinking is able to say what it thinks.” It is “the way something is spoken/said.” It is “an author’s vision of truth and being,” “reporting what is seen, heard,” “authentic, which equals poetry.” It is “spoken purely,” “building,” “dwelling,” “growing, as a fitness for philosophy,” “thinking,” “rethinking,” “thought into language.” It is “the truest nature of things.” It is “a use of reason,” “old-new thoughts,” “not necessarily said,” “a context within which poesy and poetry take place.” “It belongs to the closest neighborhood of man’s being.” “It is everywhere language speaks.” “It is speech, an abode for mortal being.” “An audible means of the communication of human feelings, accompanied by thoughts, expression, activity, presentation, and representation of real and unreal.” “Enunciation,” “language,” and “not man,” “speaks;” “peal of stillness,” “by camping out,” “bearing,” “endearing,” “of the world,” “ringing of bells as indicative of a change of stillness,” “able to speak in their own way in sounds.”

What does Heidegger mean by thought?

“Memorializing and responding.” “Poetry when genuine,” “voice is poetic because it is truthful, concealed,” “examining things as themselves,” “truth,” “Roman thought takes over Greek words without corresponding,” “equally authentic experience of what they say, without the Greek word.” “Questioning.” “Essential discourse equals philosophy,” “dwelling when listening to others,” “respond,” and “recall.”

What I missed completely or did not give enough credence to is that the poem in the beginning of the book is most important in that it brings all these ideas together. It amazes me that while Heidegger is such a genius as a writer of philosophy, he is also a great poet. His poem “The Thinker As Poet,” is one of the best I have read that conveys ideas of life that answer a deep question about life, which is inherently that we have nothing to worry about. The truth is always there and “The world’s darkening never reaches/to the light of Being.”

As a poet, or at least, this might be the thing I am when I am writing poetry, which is not to say that I am good at it, but I have written poems that have done to me what other poems have that I have loved. I have not written that many and love John Ashbery, T.S. Eliot, Marianne Moore and others, more, for example, who have gotten great distance from themselves. When writing poetry that relates to abstraction some words and their combinations have provided “memory and response to life” [I would venture to say that poetry is life], is “genuine,” etc.

Poetry is often, as it has been said in Buddhism, that it is the space between ladder rungs. All these words are spoken, but the hard wood steps of the words are not the thing or space between them. The ladder is utility. Being on the ladder can be elevating or freeing. It is our relationship to the ladder that is about the ladder and what it means.

Let’s go into the poem at the front of the book to get a sense of what Heidegger is communicating:

Way and weighing

Stile and saying

On a single walk are found.

When we walk, we weigh the events of life, existence, how we feel when we stroll, what we are thinking. When we are advancing toward a wall and each placement of our steps toward that wall and quest to cross over and as we are saying to ourselves, in our minds, on this walk, we are in contemplation.

Go bear without halt

Question and default

On your single pathway bound.

Heidegger says to go and enjoin life and do not falter, question it, and move despite other distractions toward a single journey.

He compares the “Early morning light” as something Being-oriented, poetic, and a cause and inspiration for existential fact. He relates this experience to Man him/herself.

He does this throughout the poem and the book, where language, especially the language of poetry, makes you stop and think if you ever expect to get what he is trying to say. Poetry almost often demands that you consult the dictionary, because no one really has access to all the denotations and connotations of all words. Such a grasp of the nuances of words allows for one to cross over to the poem as it might be understood or perceived. The definitions of words and grammar limit or qualify interpretation and provide evidence for or against the author as having said something that is profound or not.

The nature of the words: Poetry, Language, Thought as provided above give you a sense of the possible elements and relationships of his ideas, and you can put them together to expand the breadth and depth of what he might have meant.

Why Did I Get a Master’s Degree in English? (I didn’t.)

Hello, nice to see everyone here being practical about our apparent delusions of grandeur. As a kid in middle school, I used to listen to T. S.  Eliot on a phonograph in a public library. On a bench as a very young child, I told my uncle, I wanted to be a writer. My mother said, I would spend long hours with books entertaining myself. My aunt said that I had the vocabulary of a doctor. My father was a doctor. I don’t know how many of you are like me. Professional parents, a disposition for beauty insulated from the real world. My father used to cut up dolls as a youngster. He kept cats in the refrigerator. There are early signs, at least for him, they were practical ambitions.

I think in the beginning we all relished the sacrifices poets made, starving, losing lovers, losing children. We loved the small hovels poets lived in, traveled by trains, hobnobbed with the literati because of their families. After my father died, I knew such dreams were no longer a reality. He left us with enough money for me to finish a BA in Speech. I thought I wanted to be an attorney, but I hated what I saw of law: Stacks of files before friends, who are so much more articulate and debonair. When I got a certificate in Paralegal Studies, I got an “A” in everything, except that when I finished my coursework all I wanted to do was read novels or philosophy, which I did and do even four years later.

At the university studying Speech, I took a Latin American Literature course instead of a second year of Spanish and Edgar C. Knowlton, the genius who he was, told me not to get a MA in Literature, but rather to write if that is what I wanted to do. I think what I relished as I did taking all the artistic photo classes at the University was the little group of labbies that had formed and who spent nights and days in the photo lab having parties and printing and processing together. Writers are less social. So, we met at writing groups and marveled at how good the writing was, and then went off to try to write like what we read in The New Yorker or literary journals because they changed our lives, made us feel.

If I look at the early lives of writers such as Eliot, I see a similarity except none of the famous names like Harvard or Oxford, “Publisher, playwright, literary and social critic and ‘arguably the most important English-language poet of the 20th century.'”

No, I don’t see any of that working for me and my ambitions.

I think as it is with art and artists, writers and writing, is that like Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, only a few people can get to the top, where all their needs are met and the only thing left is self-actualization.

The cost is tremendous if we are not connected and financed. Even Virginia Woolf described “A Room of One’s Own.”

I’ve been working in a restaurant since I was 16, taken many a job, only to find that as a waiter, I was able to make enough money to buy a small condo and live out my life. I tried marriage; girlfriends come and go more often than not, and my financial advisor, a buss person with a million dollar house and many children said to me that my last phase should be to sell the current location in two years and then buy a duplex. When I am 65, that second unit will finance my freedom coupled with social security, if we can keep social security away from the Republicans. Meanwhile, I grow tired, mentally and physically.

Let’s face it, English/American literature is for us the cherry on top of a life that has been insulated by the lives of those who worked in the 50’s. The cost of living will rise and so will the quality of work become more menial. We’ve passed through a phase of insulated preeminence and even then writers starved and artists lived alone. We are the only ones who buy Literary Journals and novels written by the tried and true. Is there any room for the breadth of us?

There is a certain biological aversion to the self-indulgent person, who hides behind the third person. Even you and I are a bit sensitive to the stuff that is being played. Imagine the scrutiny of the masses? None of them have any sense of self and thus they are followers. But, what can we tell them that hasn’t already been heard? I have this ominous sense that our lives travel in circles. Where our country is on top of the world today, tomorrow, like the Chinese, we will be working in manufacturing plants, sleeping on cots and not knowing our neighbors. Kurt Vonnegut said it best in Player Piano that the world would be broken up into neighborhoods: “The wealthy upper class — the engineers and managers who keep society running—and the lower class, whose skills and purpose in society have been replaced by machines.”

It makes no sense to follow a line of thought that will only cost you in the end. Social Security will have been marketed. We’ll all be working for the rest of our lives succumbing to injuries we cannot tell for fear of loosing our jobs. Teaching literature in schools gutted by all the inessentials means that nothing will be left.

I have a friend from Columbia (the country) and he says that prosecutors and doctors are making less than anyone else. The world there is turned upside down. It all began with corruption. Poverty begets a lack of freedom and a lack of freedom makes for desperation. At least, in such a country great writers like Gabriel García Márquez make some of the best stories. We forget that as writers, just as photographers, the most decadent reality makes for the most interesting views. Gabriel García Márquez said, “Life has no limits.”

I suggest that as you choose your paths, you will not be able to escape your destinies. As a waiter, I know the hardships of reality. I know that my last days will be very painful. For I have chosen my “bliss” as Campbell said. But, he also said, as I have learned lately that, “During his later years, when some students took him to be encouraging hedonism, Campbell is reported to have grumbled, ‘I should have said, “Follow your blisters.”‘” (See:

“The Active Voice”

The definition of a stone: “Mineral object, piece of rock, quarried for a purpose, a pebble, precious stone, hard seed, calculous concretion, gravestone, grindstone, millstone, hailstone, smooth surface for printing, any surface for artists, playing piece, completely, to put to death, to fortify, to sharpen or smooth, to make insensitive, he who casts the first stone, leave no stone unturned.” (Taken from

The stone represents the last possible weapon against an aggressor, who had the audacity to outlaw it. It speaks of the right of a person to wage a greater, more violent response. If a person comes to you with a baseball bat, for example, you can use a gun to shoot them. A stone, however, in a Palestinian child’s hand against a Jewish soldier? “I take all rights way. I make the laws, I make you impotent. I leave you helpless.”

To me, the Jews have become what they most feared. What Hitler did to them was unconscionable. There is no way their treatment will leave their genes. Their nervous systems are impregnated. Only the strongest win, it seems. And if you want to keep something you have to fight for it and plan and scheme.

Still, like the Nazis, they were confronted and beaten. Their attitudes remain in our communities and sour our systems. It’s like tarantulas will never leave the hillsides. Snakes will never cease to slither in the jungles, nor fall from trees to suffocate.

But, the stone with so much denotation or connotation is not a paper weight. Unfinished stone is an odd object in a house. It belongs outside. I see the scattered rocks in Gaza. I see the dry atmosphere and the future as a gated community, where every other community has been stripped of life. Even when everyone is gone, like my father, who died when I was ten, he still lives in me and forms my thoughts. He makes an outline of my sadness. He is a silhouette, like a Magritte painting, called “The Active Voice.”

The above drawing is an homage to Magritte. It is a symbol of the little boys in Gaza, who throw their lives because of something that is true. Their songs are being beaten or shot. Their families are made to hunger and suffer. One generation after the next. A monster is being created and unleashed. The air of hatred is so thin that nothing can breathe. On the Dead Sea, the bodies float upside down. Nothing sinks where the salt has been thrown or where the eyes stack up.

I throw a stone for you. I want it to skip over the glassy surface, but the turbulence grabs it. The reflection in the lake is no longer clear but murky. The depths are disturbed. No fish nor bread to share. No memory of God. No prayers for the enemy. The sky is dark with dust and pandemonium.

On the Subject of Women Being the Property of Men

Well, I just finished reading Beloved by Toni Morrison. In it, she describes the ravages of black slavery and the buying and selling of human beings. We don’t or aren’t supposed to be doing that any more. I totally agree with you when you say “What does that even mean?!” Still, sadly, it’s true. I am reading a book by or about Baudrillard, and in it he has been attributed to saying that we are at the stage where we pay our employers to work for them. We educate ourselves so that we can then fit into the groove we have been assigned. Women have a purpose too, I am afraid, where men have bought the world and money is the means of barter, and capitalism’s slaves use their bodies as a means to their financial ends vs. the Capitalist’s machines, which keep him at a distance and so he never gets his hands dirty. A woman’s place is as a sexual tool, a baker of bread, and a barer of children. For far too long we have been deluded about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Man has even corrupted God to have us believe that we are the property of others. When a man says he wants a woman to be his property, he is speaking in Christian terms. Putting the fear of God in you is to make you think in heaven you shall be rewarded for your sacrifice. But, I know life here and now is the only waking state. You’d better fight like hell against what’s coming back. A trillion dollar tax cut is going to go far to making women the property of rich men.

What is the kindest way someone broke up with you?

For some reason this question seems irrelevant, where a harsh breakup actually gets you where you want to be. I believe in the truth and I don’t want to be in a relationship that doesn’t truly honor that. The kindest breakup is a lukewarm handshake with undertones of disrespect. Save that. I want my breakups to be sure, so I don’t mire in hopeless fantasies. I actually still pine for the woman, who sent her mother to tell me. Talk about disrespect and weakness. That was in ‘99. Love is a drug; you need addiction therapy and medical attention. 5150.

How would you feel if your child says he/she doesn’t want to get married and/or have kids?

Rather amazed in a good way. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari talk about the effects of capitalism on human beings such that like Marshall McLuhan’s thesis of ‘medium is the message,’ which means the thing affects behavior, where capitalism, as a pyramid scheme putting all money and resources into the hands of fewer and fewer, note gig economy, Amazon, Google, in effect, strangles and kills all those outside of it walls. In Jean Baudrillard Live Theory by Paul Hegarty, Baudrillard talks about paying your employer to work there. Work is harder and faster and demands more and more as accountants “do the numbers” and create more ways to make money either on the backs of workers or without them: automation and robotics. Such a response to where someone would not want children or to get married, both implying a compromise of self when our work world has compromised human ambition and force-fed it, to the point of throwing up, it is every man, woman, and child for themselves, and there is no way of telling when oil, for example, is going to stop flowing and everything stops in its tracks. Your child can instinctively sense this and these circumstances. That child is healthy. You should praise him/her and pay attention. We are all canaries in the mineshaft. Trump, for example, is a manifestation of the braggard response of such power and manipulation that goes unchallenged. The People are enslaved. Reality is spun so it can take as much as possible from a stunned populace that may have onced believed in health and happiness.


I have the capacity to love only one. Her lack of interest leaves me alone. I will be no one without her. That she would love me validated me. Now that she has finalized our relationship, I am invalid.

My heart longs only for her. I show it others, but it balks: “She is the best you will ever have. You might as well die. There is no point. You cannot lie. You were not built for it.”