very interesting BBC Documentary

Sunday Afternoon

Sitting in my living room with a cup of coffee, bagel, and reading a a book,
I hear a car horn honk to the tune of the Godfather.
The first five nine notes repeatedly.
I am in New York.

Inspired by Edison in Love

Okay, so I post other people's poetry because, well, it's beautiful and wholesome. This is the first time I am posting my own. I'm putting it out there and so...uhm.....yeah....

it seems I speak better in poetry and
understand the comfort of impossibility through it.
For those who have been loved to, in a certain way,
and decided to give all your love anyway.
To the dolls and the whores,
the housewives and the mistress,
the ones who cared impossibly hard
with no shadow of reciprocity,
But mostly to those who get on with
the disaster of the aftermath,
Feel newer each day.

Edison in Love, by Robin Ekiss

Thomas Edison loved a doll
with a tiny phonography inside
because he made her speak.

Is there any other reason
to love a woman? Did she say
the ghost of my conception

or something equally demure?
It's hard to be sure how he feels
when he holds me, I fall apart.

I'm projecting here. He didn't feel
her first transgression
was in having no expression.

Rene Descartes, too, traveled alone
with a doll-in-a-box
he called his daughter. Francine,

Francine... is it better to be silent
and wait for everything
we were promised?

Or should we love them back,
the way a train loves its destination,
as if we have the machinery necessary for it?