but he is under stars who have souls. The nights
are bold soliloquy. The nights are oil paint
and ink. Having lost something, loneliness picks
through its garbage with a barge pole, unwilling
to get too close. So these are the decisions
I am making? Call it gratitude, I like to be alive
here in this railroad apartment hovering over
eternity. Fate might at any moment bring human
voices to your window. Fate might lift the roof
and move your solitude aside with a weird and human
joy. But here you ride your whim. You can flex
your lecture. Here you can bark at your stars.
ROLF DIETER BRINKMANN
Artificial Light
We have pictures which
"move," and the meaning
is not only something which is
very bright. There are, for example,
light bulbs, which disappear in
the darkness, and there is
this pattern of auto accidents
and "angst." A boy lies
stretched out naked on the
ground, beneath a huge
brightness and "moves"
his hand. This boy is
me. The meaning of
such a scene is simple.
As though in the memory
