"caterwaul" poems
there’s a barnacle scar
deeply ingrained
on the basalt stack
at mark thirty two
whispering summer winds
scented oil
cotton and roe
drift
as waves brush
and shape
the sandstone shore
the briny air
and lost erratic
set a tone to this
pollyanna portrait
it's andrews undulations
and gifted benches
its concessions
and traces of the barry burn
its sculpted driftwood
and sanko lines
make this picture
almost perfect
children play
as venom spews
from the caterwaul pair
those odd looking mates
casting smiles
with arrested despair
settling shots
swiping bugs
dipping and darting
as photo men
and muscles
and long neck seabirds
make their turn
the hunched hoody
and his sorted sidekick
get their fill
(of moss and rubble ~ chubby and kelp)
nice to meet your acquaintance
the pho man would say
an odd drop
and ironic turn
from those horrific corners
of timeless desperation
down by cannon bridge
harbor seals
and carriage horse
are fronted by
raven shade
jolly tides pause
in quiet bays
(with curious looters
and *** pickers)
sand merchants
and field totems
all streamed by the light
cirrus strands
blanket the
outer edge
hovering craft
and shimmering willows
bolt the evening frame
blood orange
and tethered
with a filtered glare
bottle-nose dolphins
and seabirds
(and shifting tides)
are all settling in
for the long night stay
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright—
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats are rather small;
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;
They like to practise their airs and graces
And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,
Jellicle Cats are not too big;
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears
They make their toilette and take their repose:
Jellicles wash behind their ears,
Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They’re quiet enough in the morning hours,
They’re quiet enough in the afternoon,
Reserving their terpsichorean powers
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;
If it happens to be a stormy night
They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright
You would say they had nothing to do at all:
They are resting and saving themselves to be right
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
11.3k
Are you ******* crazy, he says
and I want to nod,
want to grin
want to peel back my lips and gnash my teeth like a wild thing,
want to jump on the table and scream.
I want to caterwaul,
want to close my eyes and keep them shut
I want to dig my nails into flesh and hear the tear.
No, my voice is quiet like a whisper,
hesitant and unsure.
I want that to be the wrong answer
but I don’t...
I want him to get angrier still
but I don’t...
I don’t want him red-eyed,
blood thirsty,
coming down upon me
but I do.
And when he grips my chin with slender fingers,
I want to sigh,
want to moan like a ***** in heat.
Like a ***** on the side of the road, full with ***
sore with lust and clit-swollen.
When his hand slaps my bare bare skin,
stinging pink brightly under the force of my degradation.
My sweet humiliation,
leaving soft thick welts on my delicate limbs,
writhing helplessly in discomfort,
tears smudging old makeup and
I am weak,
I am ugly,
I am hurting and I am wrong,
impaired and imperfect,
and perhaps I am ******* crazy.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Based on a painting, "Nuclear Puppies", by Julie Nagel, 2001
You’re a mutant, you know—
got funny dog babies sprouting
out of your head like they were
ears. Those copies of your face
look up at a sky of ashy gray,
perked and tense. Are you listening
to yourself? What choir
of dog-eared deformities
sings to you? Maybe they should have
howled louder before we dropped The Bomb.
Maybe the yellow caterwaul of their
melting butter bodies would have stayed our hand.
I doubt it though.
This is what we do. We burn things.
We tinker, adding and subtracting until
what’s left is blasphemy—until what’s left is
you. A yellow almost-dog, a sagging
body with melted flesh where there should
be fur. Sad monster; beg your alms
from the atomic Frankensteins who made you.
Your skyward eyes are bright, still happy
anywhere but here. But your abominable
body lies here staring into gray space with
Alpo still sticky on your nose, wet, brown snow.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Myself caught in the heatwave sunlight, brown eyes
furrowed in the sun, scarf loose on my neck/
the transcendental Denpasar morning-birds
are playing their melodies in my head still,
three years post-Indonesia.
All of my soul to India now,
sky the pink of painted elephants
on Jaipur dawning,
my afterlife was somewhere here
perhaps two generations ago, chances are.
Vijay Raghav Rao and Alla Rakha
playing the Tabla/via earphones/treading the
Funary Box City (Kashi) future Spring
hands held together keeping calm pace.
Looking about, my twenty-two year old face
catches humid wind
S
I
L
V
E
R
S
H
O
P
tattered bike leaning on the gated guest house entrance
PERENNIAL AZURE SHIVA SITS CROSS LEGGED/
COBRA NECKLACE IMITIATONS ON THE GODDESS THROAT/
MEDITATING SHIVA/
dulled from years and corrosion.
Brahmin center of the market street
flapping it's tail,
sweat beads from my forehead bleeding
to oily pavement.
At last the months have come for the river Ganges,
April penumbra/savage thunderclap
while school children uplifting the heart
AND MIND
are ROARING in their laughter
the CONTINENTAL DISCORD OF JOY
sleeping with their eyes open
while others are too tired for the Earth.
Sidney Bechet floating swan songs during
the black hour cremations/
“Bechet Creole Blues”
CATERWAUL IN THAT VOID
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DEATH/
LUNACY OF LIFE
(I've arrived at the simultaneous crossroads
of both)
searing flesh in open air pyramids/
Manikarnika Ghat,
Asia F
L
O
W
S
through dreams
like inevitable prophecy
and as ash blends with stars
the CITY seems fulfilled
and mystifying
in it's
(((((RESPLENDENCE)))))
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”
Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.
Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”
Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the cock-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.
Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******** the ball-cock
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?
If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).
I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.
It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.
With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?
So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?
Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****
With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
I **** the mood in a sour June,
opulent misery, scorched Earth,
exchanging platitudes with old faces,
full of ******** full of hot air.
Both sides of the fence
at war with themselves,
feigning inner peace and profit
across the beer garden table.
I talk of hangmen and floods,
child brides and dressing gowns,
my hometown under the mythic spell
of collective memory loss.
We have forgotten our place
in the comfort of our urban sprawl;
sirens caterwaul past the high-rise,
past the vacant church with locked doors
and the homeless on the street.
A commonplace emergency,
young male suicides, women *****
in the safety of their homes,
taught a kindness through physical force,
the way the gun drops to civilians
in countries saved through the filter
of television screens; of dust and distance.
I sit and write and think of ****
of old loves, anxieties-
they call me crazy all the while
for not committing to the scene.
Now Afghanistan is a blueprint,
extended diagram of steady-state destruction,
a conspiracy of white man dreams,
farmlands bruised by machines of war,
by the Big Black Boot,
the feeling we have been here before.
All the while, the illusion persists,
car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists
with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco,
and the megalomania of art.
I **** the mood of a whitewashed June,
advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth,
exchanging currency for a chance of peace,
the zen garden smoker, the looted mind.
Both sides of the fence are collecting bones,
at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red
and my philosophies, ******
They call me crazy for dreaming of escape,
whilst never leaving the confines of home.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
A dog somehow learned cat-speak,
thought the second language, part of his camoflague
but his attempts for catcall sounded like muffled dog's howl
caterwaul, should I need to say, was all foul,
quite threatening to any cat with a bit of self-respect.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
holy graffito of a swan
gorgeous, decapitated
limp bricks sag
behind it, hysterical hegira
plummeting in sync with the self
towards the elusive, dry glory of
death or forgiveness
this is the catechism of disbelief
Agnostic by default
sleeping on the side
being wrong is not a problem
it is an answer unto itself
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
Hello,
my name is so and so
Have you heard of such and such?
"No, not very much."
Well let me tell you...
The sledgehammer
catalyze the caterwaul of lies
Unhinge your mind,
grease it
and rehinge it,
Because; everything is out of balance
A pendulum disturbed by the devil's malice
while he dances
through our glances and drops the knowledge
of how the money you pledged is wedged
in between stacks of paper and salary checks
The blues in the night-light dance with the stamina
of broken dreams. Well, let me tell you of the suffrage
and my lack of knowledge or power–or both–to discern or summon
a strategy for navigating this slanting ship
capsizing with the weight of the world
in the Suez Canal.
The doctrine of a dead man's cackle
enforce the shackle
of the child's ankle
The unswerwing arrow of my intent,
Pegonia arrowhead
plunge into a heart of lead
to find the hidden treasure
x-marks-the-spot
of another bitter man
"For every pledge donor you get
5 children died
in Tibet."
And so will they continue to
What can I do?
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
I'd pull a pratfall just to keep that smile wide and real
I'd pull my somersaults and dance a brilliant fever frenzy
I'd grab those carol bells and shake them in a brilliant peal
And no not anything you'd ever do could possibly offend me
I'll tell you stories, curl your toes with all delight or fright
I'll run through tall grass, hauling string behind to raise your kite
I'm in your thrall, I'll beg and crawl, and caterwaul
If I should think I've come ever so near to dealing you a sleight
I'll pull a pratfall
Because I'd rather be loved as a fool
Than not be loved at all.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
You taught me that mindfulness is staring at the moon
and watching the clouds turn colours like the Caño Cristales;
last year's poetry, last year's demise,
swept to the ocean salt through the river of time.
You taught me the out-breath was the signature of consciousness,
that temples change hands and empires will fall,
but you can forever be in the moment
once you hear waves in the traffic caterwaul.
You taught me that happiness is a working goal
and not the resting-place after a lifetime of grief.
You taught me the in-breath can cut through the static
and give meaning to a life so stretched and so brief.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
The cat with radium eyes, drilling into my sub-terrain secrets,
Hedgehopped silently in to my camouflaged enclosure, for a nightcap, it said.
A companion of mysteries, tip-toes in to the wilderness of night
With a gentle "meow' to hunt
how fast you pulled me closer, with your claws drawn out,
Not any coy maiden, your lust, long nailed and wild,
Known you differently before, now it comes out on the open, I love you in your true colors, yes, but..
Your kisses are bloodsucking vampire feasts,
You need to feel the beast all over you, to quench the lust, from the beginning I knew(my secret)
With caterwaul crescendo we celebrated lust, I contributed in plenty at your request,
When swelled desire, did burst and waves dissipated, we went to a dopomine induced sleep,
Completely transformed, you just look like a lackluster colleague,
Unexpectedly came to visit, for a cuppa and chat (why do I feel bit let down, difficult to understand)
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
"Allegory", my possessive pet cat,
get terribly curious, when my door remains closed,
*her soft purrs turn frenzied feline shrikes,
when the muffled voices inside get louder, sounding like caterwaul*.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
with me.
live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
these things pulse with strength
in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
no sight or hindsight.
i'll run to where the sunlight is
and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
scarred, sundered.
clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.
living alone
yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
the well-placed gnome of stone outside
stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.
tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
and crawl towards the ajar door of
my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
all books dissipated, some naked
in relished pages, others abeyant.
the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
— all is broken.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
With every passing day my body begs,
Consider that all drink, all food consumed
Will shorten breath, and weigh on swollen legs.
But thirst and palate are no less attuned
Though appetite has slaked as time goes by.
Instead of gluttony, I must select;
Notice what I eat and drink and why
To savor flavor to its best affect.
A poet learns their mindfulness of words
The same. With small or no restraint at all,
They gorge themselves on overstuffed buffets,
Well-salted with their tears. Yet, to be heard,
A simpler line cuts through the caterwaul
And quenches thirst and hunger on its way.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:25 AM UTC
There is a war on the screen
Full of filth that goes unseen.
Yet all I can do is sip peppermint tea
And regurgitate conceited poetry.
Of days too long where I long to hold
Purpose in me, a spirit bold.
To go forth and spread a message of love
And pray to the science of the stars above.
But it’s a caterwaul of profiteering
And adverts for the hard of hearing.
It’s to my heart, this world’s poison is seeding,
My once hopeful head is now receding.
So it is with compromise that I do age,
A prostituted soul on minimum wage.
I’ll escape out into my fictitious streets,
Where fairytale lovers still care to meet.
Where words are read and held to *******
To imprint the words upon the tremor of chests.
Where misfortune is fickle and lasts not long,
To where the dandelions may sing their song.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
such-a-deep-and-comely-thing
so-fleshless-moments-are-going
sharing-something-the-silence
and-the-quick-quiverings-of-flutings
when-nothing-becomes-the-heart
like-a-jungle-stripping-the-panache
of-the-viridian-softer-it-is-the-truth
of-the-navel’s-blue-pursuit
in-the-caterwaul-of-bodies-to-a-spry
plaything-summon-a-laughter-blacker
than-ravens-in-the-thrall-of-the-beset-moon
and-the-homes-fat-always-with-such-tender-beatings
it-is-the-time-of-the-heron
it-is-the-end-of-the-susurration
when-the-unswift-hands-of-alloys
sojourn-and-still-something-a-dagger-in-the-mire
of-the-cloud-that-egregiously-whispers
a-long-possiblity-of-dreams-and-their-palpable-weight
(say-it-will-perhaps-contention-of-pulseless-awakenings
when-it-was-such-truthfulness-that-when-the-heart-sings
the-mind-stirs-and-the-hands-dance-to-roundtables-of-mirth
twitching-such-belittled-locomotions-when-it-was-fashionable
to-have-adorned-you-the-love-and-not-firm-obstreperous-meanderings)
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
a calyx in chaos.
a crack in chalky crown, crimson, cratered, clowns
cry crystal shards....
clothe me in crimpolene
in shades of clinical ivory
and cream.
come hither they cry
and carp, cavil,caterwaul.
come hither, come,
come, come.
cypher the cyan, from the cyanide
castigate, the casting,
of the conversational.
be cognisant, within the
cogs of the clock...
click-ticking..tick-clicking
in chorus, chant of canticle.
be the calm,
within the clemency.
and the core,
of the courageous.
concede not,
contemplate, with conscioncious, clear
the concepts of conotation
above all be
incomparable, capricious, canny and considerate
a conglomerate of cause, corpus and crux.....
both curious and a curiosity.
cause...
creation, cherishes
a clever n' curious, curiosity.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
She sits by the window sill
waul by the wall
singing him back home
because she has no thumbs
to open a can of tuna.
Evolution has been remiss
to her kind in this regard
but flea is well aware
this lack is compensated
by fluffiness, dainty white paws,
and eyes that glistens
ever so moistly
(looking at morsels mostly)
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 1:47 PM UTC
it is just after dusk,
and the day has gathered
it's coloured petticoats and
fled.
the sleek, white and black
patched cat,
from three doors
down, to the left
has taken up position,
on
the next door neighbor's shed.
she sits,
preening under the
moth dappled spotlight,
as she sings an aria
of love and seduction
* Un'aura amorosa—"
A loving breath"*
perhaps....
all the males
come to listen in,
testosterone,
induced adoration.
even the
little blucat
with only
vaguest memories
of infatuation, tries to heed
her siren call...
pressing
himself against
the glass sliding door
praying
for two miracles
the first being
osmosis
and the second
the reincarnation
of long lost testicles.
but
alas,
alack
god does not heed his
plaintive cries...
and besides the party
next door
is now over....
closed down
by a shower
of rain
sent by garden hose
all cats,
now wend their
way home to
dinner's cold
and hearth's warm
or to fight
as alley cats do
in dark corners
of this urban sprawl
awaiting the
midnite reprise
of the
operatic caterwaul
at number
two seventy four.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Been staring at the screen too long,
Seeing faces in the whitewashed wall.
Been staring at the billboard
Promising a Brand New Freedom
And yet never felt so small.
Been fighting for inner peace,
The war inside my mind.
I find it helps to breathe,
To find that positive energy...
But I tend to just stick to wine.
Been giving up on giving up,
Then, giving up on that...
I’ve been a poet
And a life-long friend,
And I’ve been a selfish ****
I’ve ****** on a stranger’s garden fence
When I was drunk and high,
I’ve disappeared for weeks on end
And never given a reason why.
I’ve been collecting memories
And turning them to lies,
I’ve become a shoulder
That you can lean on,
But one that you cannot cry.
Went crazy in the hotel sheets,
Took a pill to help me sleep,
The afterglow burned me out,
The after-party was letting out,
Been throwing up for days on end,
The winter blues, the long weekend.
Been falling into old routines,
Been lost inside my absent dreams.
Meditate on the toilet seat
To gain a modicum of sanity
In the caterwaul of the working day,
In the onset of reality.
Been picking fault in every line,
In every footstep, in every rhyme,
In the clumsy way I tie my shoes,
In the way I do not keep up with the news.
Been staring at the screen too long,
Hearing voices in the silence.
Been claiming love and poetry
But I think in *** and violence.
Been fighting for inner peace,
The war inside my mind.
I just find my way
To fill the day
And let the clock unwind.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
Young, yes, but even so the boy spun circles ‘round the sallow priest.
This older man was young, too -- almost too young to shoulder his responsibilities. Undisturbed by time, unbowed by gravity, he was the still spoke in this wheel, remaining tall, straight, like a candle: smelling of tallow, waxy and sinuous. He burned dimly with certainty, the simple certainty of the taught. This was the priest, but also burning was the spinner for he span circles unbroken, in simplicity complete.
"So, God knows what we will do tomorrow?”
"Yes, yes," answered the priest, annoyed already. Always annoyed at the impositions of children, who call and caterwaul when they have not learned respect, who do not learn respect in an age of information, who do not shut their eyes against the dark awe of the ineffable.
Still spinning, light glinting from him, the boy was marvellous and profound without even trying. "But we do what we want?" His head flamed too, not the guttering candle flame but instead the true brightness of a star.
"Yes, yes," answered the priest, "we have free will."
"But God wants what is best?" The boy span, the circle tightened.
"Yes, yes," answered the priest. "God always wants the best. Everything is for the best, for God has willed it."
"So what I do tomorrow God already sees. What God wants is the best. If what he saw was not best, he would change it." The boy was concluding that everything was for the best, all he did was for the best, for this was always the best of all possible worlds. And his head rang with the circuit of the circle, for it came back around and completed itself.
The priest pinched fingers at his nose. "You do not understand."
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC