I will start one tunnel work and I was just looking his lecture notes, which I took on year 2000 at University of Alberta. I cannot beleive he has passed away, I cannot stop my tears. It´s very dificult to me from Brazil to know this notice that Prof. Eisenstein has passed away. Now I send in portuguese: Saudades de um grande amigo, mestre, colega, companheiro que tive a honra de compartilhar grandes momentos técnicos. Que Deus ilumine e conforte sua familia. Sua obra técnica continuará eterna e servindo a todos nós. HE WAS A GIANT OF A MAN!!!
Appropriated from here.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
The fair men, the One who wonder, are we capable to do as others do or our quest for? In schools, at home, in the street up to the highest institutions, there is a black dust. An invisible motion. For those who live within the borders of school, Harz or cheating is another warrior from the invisible motion.
Since, none is yet ready, we tried to dress up in many forms, and didn’t stop imitating. If you ask for more than what you give then expect to make no move like the poor donkey. If you can get yourself in a serene interrogation, then hopefully I can too.If you do blame everything on me or on others,then there we shall meet. The meeting point of naggers. For those who want to face Hrooz or cheating, you fold up your sleeves nice since it’s nothing but an endless conflict.
Appropriated from Hello Chichaoua
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
…I still remember that we were besieged by a hungry German dog. He looked furiously to the baby and we understood that we had to drop it. Suddenly, a courageous gunshot tore the dog’s body and retrieved silence to the place. It was night; we couldn’t see nor feel but the resistant snow. One of the tall and free woods introduced a dark, big boned figure. We could see from his color that he is not a German soldier. My mother in gratitude kneeled to the black statue and so I did. Gently, he asked us to stand up. We were lucky. He recognized us as Jewish ladies. He spoke our language and could even utter some German words. He could see that we have just arrived from the German camp. He understood our need of food, and humanely shared his meal.
We walked away from the dead dog, and made our way inside the organized woods. Only silence broke our silence. The black soldier, your father, started to ask about the number of the German regiments in the camp, their weapons’ supplies and lots of things. Our silence answered them all.
“I met some Jews yesterday on the other side; I’ll try to take you there, ” murmured your father.
We followed his gigantic foot steps, breaking ashes of ice. He didn’t look back, and bowed his head in mere respect. I started to inspect his body; didn’t really look like the image I had about Arabs in the other side of the world. I minded our religious conflict and stitched scattered words he might say, or gestures he might do. I was sixteen.
The white snow revealed broken shadows of hungry Jewish women. They were quite a large number. They heard our march and hided behind each other. Your father, the soldier, made a sign to me to move forward. I did explain to them that we had just escaped from the concentration camp. They looked suspiciously at your father. He removed his rifle backward. He made some steps of trust. A young lady raised and uttered few cold words, “we didn’t eat for two nights”. Gently, your father gave the rest of his food. The women wrestled to have a fair share.
Appropriated from Hello Chichaoua
Categories: Amateur writing
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
I lay across my hands with no air. What comes at me, come out
of me, or better, Neighbor. What my head filled with trains of
action potentials, what filled my blood with iron, I blow them
out a further, a sever, a split, a cut. I lay across my legs with no
Our knucks. My knucks drag up to something slowly. I blow
out as further as possible what my head filled blood as I have
ever known it, knuckles up. I blow up to something now,
slowly leaning forward against, ‘til all my Our, one at with air,
‘til fill my mouth with old hiss hoot jeer, till give me
something, ‘til something gave.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
I’m afraid our human minds is not someplace new, is not a new
place for minds, but an old place for others, other parts, for me
to act with those things, people and, I felt before. The whole
occasion wide, oceans begins with where there are lights
maybe, and it’s beneathe highway. One electric lights and other
beings (not city humans but dogs, cats and stuff too) run this
city by another name. It gave me what I use. But by begins with
G now, and ends. The purpose of men is not to, I don’t want to,
contribute into what will look like an ocean. Churches are
houses of intimacy like my house is. What does water do to
year wine? A waterman is much larger at the babe, but points
as he grows taller. My man I know what about walks with pain,
tombs as buildings metered.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
Hamburg! Port of Hamburg! Great ships from Monrovia. What
for what, and post times, and regulars and time, and success
and nice clothes. Germany. German. Every clothes, shoes, hair,
every food and advertisements, every toilet and hand dryer is
imaginative. Posts oh posts. Posts, oh ridges. Ridges oh, oh
toes, and towards. Ridges posts and greens past houses down
the river, canoes and men cold in them swimming together
around in and out and through the canals. I crossed your
development HafenCity, crossed you on your trains now your
trains. Your long walks between attractions. Your so many
office buildings. Your wet water in the cold. Your boats
trafficking your vets in water. Your men whose hands to the
cold and my hands bandaged at the cracks by your very
brilliant band aids designed for long fingers. Brilliant life you
share there in Hamburg all the time. Bless the thoughters there
and let the sorts like John’s and Paul’s Fish & Chips go. You
know how well the impression of police, of train conductors
who do just fine, instead would like to help you find where
you’re going. Nothing but you are all heart. You come closest
to outlasting human life. Your church by the builder becomes
beauty by all the beauties that come after her, inspired by her,
taller even. And it’s just that, that it’s good enough to inspire as
many others, is the best to me as it can, by creation beans at
Hammerbrook City Süd, at Harburg Rathaus, Wilhelmsburg, at
Veddel. Technique bonds to foremen.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
At what books sound science misses, the mind missed. At what
the mind missed is the future. At towards Ms., don’t become
pregnant. Don’t become like pregnant, Geoffrey dies. What
day, no matter what type registry outliven, how many creators
of beautiful songs breaks your heart, are dead, have stopped
hearts, have at least one stopped heart. And women who won’t
have it with me would like me lose what I know to gain at
greater. Had a pussy, grew softmore, a soft weight, suds
weight. I grew in your condition, tries to see at through toward
moves. Might I see a rolling tank track or a man in the dust
coming at me, my direction and cannot still see me, and the
louder clack of ship anchors, grows sometimes out of the dust
and onto grass, not a dusty green but a clean crisp rolls towards
me. I blow out as further as I can. I blow up to something as
good as any plant or dog.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
My hope at life, my start at alcohol, my second looses, my start
begun and clacking at it. Still my body begins at blood and
clacking, closes against then opens what whole day won’t be
complete, and whole probably never will, my hope on one very
low day. All work day up and home day down. What men like
me become. Which writer can soften acids, can drive me
through the book, not back around to me in it (that I’m to have
at burn me). I can’t alive the walk to work, ask liveries to score
and cool me. I’m gonna sit at this office chair is loaned to me.
A desk and chair that never went of any real quality. College
age, strong upper body. I am gonna sit at the office is loaned to
me, the opponent in the green field. There the light crawled to
see darkness. I learned to sing songs. I learned, that at faith
there’d be time scares. That scares meant evening, and they
caused lightly against nothing before, though it was really
something then, and then, to something new, watching back on
it now. Thy equals and the will eventually, they will what I was
hoping, a singular hope: that what agreed would not agree. The
writing, the event makes my break. You borne my quickness.
As I saw you much witness, in much cities, less the woman, not
so her routine, not in smoke, not in drags, but blowing with so
much experience.
Categories: Book 4 · Poetry
Tagged: American writing, Poetry, Prague
