shazdor

”...Look at me from the depths of the earth,
tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeweler with crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter wasted among his clays—
bring to the cup of this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem was dull or because the earth
failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,
the wood they used to crucify your body.
Strike the old flints
to kindle ancient lamps, light up the whips
glued to your wounds throughout the centuries
and light the axes gleaming with your blood.

I come to speak for your dead mouths…”

one of the guys from radiohead lived at owen’s park… that makes it worth visiting right?

“a great heat wave descended; it was a beautiful day, the sun turned red at three. i started up the mountain and got to the top at four. all those lovely california cottonwoods and eucalypti brooded on all sides. near the peak there were no more trees, just rocks and grass. cattle were grazing on the top of the coast. there was the pacific, a few more foothills away, blue and vast and with a great wall of white advancing from the legendary potato patch where frisco fogs are born. another hour and it would come streaming through the golden gate to shroud the romantic city in white, and a young man would hold his girl by the hand and climb slowly up a long white sidewalk with a bottle of tokay in his pocket. that was frisco; and beautiful women standing in white doorways, waiting for their men; and coit tower, and the embarcadero, and market street, and the eleven teeming hills.”