his tail to unsuspecting travelers who were heading up and down the fox river which was one of the main thoroughfares at a time. through a chance encounter with a number of french officials and also the reporters of the day, williams continued to push this story that he was the lost prince of france. putnam's magazine ran a story that purportedly doubled their subscription to the magazine reporting on eleazer williams as the lost prince, and that subsequently led to a book called the lost prince. and williams really for the rest of his life lived off his story. he was invited to all these parties and receptions of the high society of the day, both here and on the east coast. newspaper such as "the new york times" would announce his arrival to the city, and publishes social calendar for the period of time that he was in the city.

so he very effectively and successfully lived off his story for the rest of his life. williams died in new york in a cabin that was built to resemble a french château. his remains were returned here to the area in 1949, and at that time there was some observations on on the remains, and it was determined conclusively that he was of north american and probably native american descent, which was consistent with what we do know about his past. but he was very successful in his day in promoting himself as the lost prince of france, probably more success than most of the other fakes out there at the time. >> coming up next, charles wright come the 20th poet laureate of the united states. he delivered his inaugural reading at the library of congress in washington, d.c. this event is just under one hour.

please welcome the librarian of congress, dr. james h. billington. [applause] >> good evening and welcome to the library of congress. this year in the search for our next poet laureate of the united states, the library of congress reached out to 50 nominations from around the country, critics, scholars, editors, leaders in the field, and our past port -- poet laureates. we received 76 recommended names. i read through hundreds of poems and poetry collections to experience their diverse talent with vision and range. but no matter whose work i was reading through, i found myself returning to the poetry of charles wright.

tonight, i am delighted publicly to celebrate his appointment to the nation's only federally funded a position for literature. now, this is not the first on the library has bestowed on mr. wright. in 2008, we awarded him the rebecca johnson bobbitt national prize in poetry for lifetime achievement, and he becomes then the only winner of the laureate bishop specifically for lifetime achievement in the 22 year history of the prize as well as the third bobbitt winner to move on to the laureate bishop. after louise, he has also received almost more prizes -- the kochtopus, national book award, national book critics award, the price for the poetry foundation and in national griffin poetry prize, among many

others. former chancellor of the cabinet of american poets, he is currently a fellow at the american academy of arts and sciences, a member of the american academy of arts and letters committee member of the fellowship of southern writers. it was as part of the fellowship that wright recently returned to the library to go to sleep in a reading organized by then our previous poet laureate. wright was born in tennessee, now listen charlottesville, virginia, where he is professor emeritus of creative writing at the university of virginia. is poems often turn to the world of the south for its grounding power and imagery, yet they're just as likely to return to italy, where, while stationed there with the united states army, wright famously fell in love with the poetry of ezra pound, and italy in general.

is poetry does not fit into the storytelling tradition generally associate with southern literature, but it echoes the spiritually charged syntax of jerrod manley hopkins and the grand reckoning of dante's divine comedy. as the library of congress for 27 years under the champion of russian literature, i admire how wright dedicated himself to a 30 year project. he named it the appalachian book of the dead, and how he has sustained an elemental beauty and poem after poem in gracefully meditative forms. i also appreciate the gravity of his concerns which he states are, and i'm quoting, in language, landscape, and the idea of god, as well as his

counterbalance of humility and self-replicating humor. a poem like ancient of days from wright's new book, caribou, captures is rare alchemy. it is with these lines that i will read not as eloquently as he willed himself. this is an old man's poetry written by someone who spent his life looking for one truth. sorry, pal, there isn't one. unless of course the trees and the low down relatives are part of it. unless the late evening of clouds, spanish along the horizon are part of it. and less the diminishing pinprick of light stunt in the dark forest is part of it. unless, oh, my, whatever they i mix out and sends us on its rough road trace to the heart is

part of it. then maybe that bright vanishing might be. i see with certainty that wright's poetry is a poetry for all ages and all times. for close to a century it is not only report on what it is seen but searched for, whatever truth to be found there. the result is a music as singular moving and ultimately necessary as anything in our language. please join me in welcoming charles wright, the 20th poet laureate consultant poetry at the library of congress. [applause]

>> i can tell i am being called -- [inaudible] >> thanthank you, dr. billingto. thank you very much. it's a great honor being here. and thank you, rod kaspar, for being an exhaustible in your help and for writing that long introduction. [laughter] thank all of you all coming, too. i really appreciate it. i want to always come at times like this want to thank one's parents, even though they are no longer around, because you what you then say, boy, that was

close, wasn't it? [laughter] the poems i'm going to read are pretty much in chronological order. and the first one is called ours a letter to which i think means the art of poetry. [laughter] it starts out i like about your. back here when you lived in california was right had a little space carved out of the back of the garage where i used to work, or used to tell myself i was working. i like it back here under the green swaths of the pepper tree and the elevator. i like it because the wind steps down the leaves without a word. i like it because the wind

repeats itself and the leaves do. i like you because i am better here than i am there. surrounded by fetishes and figures of speech, docs to the and while stiff, my father's shoe, the dead weight of winter, the and articulation of joy. the spirits are everywhere. and once i have been called down from the sky, and spinning and dancing in the palm of my hand, what will it satisfy? i'll still have the voices rising out of the ground, the fallen star my blood feeds, this business i waste my hard on. and nothing stops that. can you hear me back there? no? oh, jesus. [laughter] sorry, jay.

i thought this was a microphone. [laughter] can you hear me now? no? [inaudible] okay, wait a minute. [laughter] seriously, can you hear me now? well, tough luck for you. [laughter] this poem is called don't care but at night. but caribou is a mountain up in montana, northwest montana which can be seen from the place we go in the summer. my last book was called "caribou" which was supposed to have a picture of them out and on it but this in all those horns and i said it's a nice picture, so what the hell. let's use it. [laughter] since the times of my poems have very little to do with the poems been the cover of my book and have very little to do with the poems themselves. there's a little story behind

this. the yadkin valley in northwest montana is 4000 feet and it really gets cold up there in the winter. this was told to me. i have no idea, but years ago a man named walter smoot died up there, and he is one of the very early settlers, and nobody would bury him because they all dislike him intensely for some reason. so a couple of people, three people i think i'm fat around drinking and said what are we going to do with old walt? i don't know, i hate that son of a. you know. finally, one guy, john, said hello, i would bury the son of a. let's go. they went to this little bench which eventually became the official cemetery for the area.

john started digging and started digging and started digging at the ground was frozen solid of course. he was digging and digging and i guess the whiskey start to wear off a little bit and he said that's it, i've had it. let's bury him right here. we will bury him seated up. so they stuck him in there and put his head down over his knees and put the dirt on top of them and their lives walter smoot to this day. [laughter] mount caribou at night. just north of a yak a river, one man sits bolt upright, a little bonnet of dirt and bunch grass above his head. northwest montana is hard relief, and harder still to laying down and arising out. i speak to the others there lodged in their stone wedges of

blocks and slashes in the ground and told them that walter smoot, starched and at ease in his bony duds under the 10 racks, still holds the nightfall between his knees. work stars, drop by confederate drop, begin sales and electric paste across the sky. and down toward the academy they carry them back to the dawn, they squeeze out andromeda and the whale, everything on the move, everything flowing and holding back and starting again. star slick, clicking encrusting at my feet, smoot and running in august vendors still in the black poles of the earth, clouts watch over the tree lines, but caribou massive on on the rise in taking it in. and taking it back to the future we occupied, and we will wait to you again, ourselves and our

children's children snug in our monk's robes, pushing the college votes back, ready to walk out into the same night and the middle-class, instead and on time -- in step and on time. can you hear me back there? i don't think you can't, can you? that was such a great poem. i'm really sorry. [laughter] no, really, i'm serious. can you hear me in the last row? thank you. this is a longer poem, not that long, 41 pages last night -- [laughter] it's clled california dreamy which is the last poem i wrote before we left california to come to virginia, over 30 years ago. of course, the title is from a very famous song by the mamas

and office of the '60s called california dreaming. we are not born yet and everything is crystal under our feet. we are not brethren. we are not underling. we are another nation living by voices that you will never hear caught in the net of splendor of time to come on the earth. we shine in assistant chambers. we are golden. midmorning and darvon, dusk falls off the pacific, stuns us to ecstasy. october sun stuck like attack on the eastern tip of the sky come the idea of god on the other, body by body raised, draining away into the undercoating and slow sparks of the west, which is our solitude and our joy.

i looked at this ridge of lights for six years now and still don't like it. strung out like good friday along the cliff that easter is down to the ocean, dark wing with ruffled feathers as far out as catalina, fallen from sun sky. ruffled and laid back by the wind, sand and that list gets hot breath on the neck of everything. what is the sole indeed is outside the body? a little rainfall of light moistening our every step, asthmatic, a posse of civic. what is inside the body and negotiate is waiting to come out? why does they quilt swathed in easy times? what other and a cog in this life lets itself? what other latter to paradise but the smooth handholds of the

rib cage. high in the paltry the orioles twitter and grieved, the spider twirls honeybee who twitters and grieves around internet and draws it by one leg up to the fishbone firmly is inside the pepper tree swaddled himself and turns it again and again until it is shiny. some nights when a rock-and-roll band next door quit playing and the last helicopters are back to the marine base, and the dark with all its way down to within a half inch of the ground, i said outside in the and moonlight as a town sleeps and the country sleeps like long confetti around me and wonder just what in the hell i'm doing out here? summary thousands of miles away from what i know best.

and what i know best has nothing to do with points conceptions or avalon and the long the ratio of the ocean after what the landscape ends. what i know best is the little things. it sits on the far side of the simile, and like that is like the light. today is sweet stuff, the question of how we should live our lives in this world will find no answer from us this morning. the suns look, the ash and hope -- upping its back beneath us shivering out wave after wave a fall from a cut through in a white scarf is healed waters. i wetsuits cause slick as seals, our boards growing sharp as cries. we rise and fall like the sun. ghost of in use and our dogsbody suspended above the beach

november 25, sun like a valium disk, small like rust in the trees. white hooded and fireback, the goldwater eyeballs the weeds come invisibly piston, the sea keeps it up, plunges and draws back, plunges and draws back. yesterday hung like a porcelain cup behind the eye. insistent extremities, the worm creeping out of a heart. who are these people we pretend to be? untouched by the setting sun. they stand less stiffly than we do and handsomer first on the left foot and then on the right. just remote we see ourselves inside them, peering out, then they go their own way and we go hours to back to the window seat above the driveway, christmas lights in the pepper tree, black

madonna gazing out from the alley at this, downcast, heavy with wasting -- weeping of bitterness for time has come around again. piece by small piece the world falls away from us like spores from a milkweed pod. and everything we have known and everyone we have is taken away by the wind to forget the fullness. somebody always humming, california dreaming. this is called under the nine trees in january. in our backyard in charlottesville, at one time

there were 21 fruit trees planted by the people who fixed the house up for us and sold it to us. but apparently one of them had been kind of nasty to the people who are putting the trees in, and the landscape in back matter. and so they put all the fruit trees inside coffee cans and planted them. so one by one they all died. we went from 21 to nine, and then we went down to none. but i get in there when there was still nine, and that's what this poem is about. last night stars at last night's wind our west of the mountains now, and east of the river. here, under the branches of the nine trees, how small the world seems. should we limit and in winter

are shadows of solitude, our names spelled out like snowflakes? where is it written, this seasons decrease diminishes me? should we long for stillness, a hush for the trivial body washed in the colors of paradise, dark-colored watercolored match flame in wind colored? as one who is never understood the void, should i give counsel to the darkness, honor the condors wing? should we keep on bowing to an inch of this and an inch of that? the world is a handkerchief. today i spread it across my knees. tomorrow they will fold it into my breast pocket, white on my dark suit. if i have a suit. hope to be buried in levi's.

this poem is called jesuit grace. my wife and i were in ireland in 1995, in dublin, and our friend, the dear ms. beloved cheney took us out to the cemetery to see the grave of hopkins, who i was a great admirer of, and still am. a jesuit priest and poet. being a jesuit society it's very unprepossessing. they have the three most recent graves and then a long list of all the people from the order from time back on a marble

length. when i got back to shamus his house, i told his wife, marie, you will believe what shameless did for 30 drones all the way out to the cemetery to see hopkinson's grave. she said, oh, sure, he doesn't for everybody. [laughter] so there you go. midsummer, irish overcast, oatmeal colored sky. the jesuit pit, last mast for hundreds whose names are on the marble wall above the gravel and grass was dirt. just dirt and the small stones, abstract, how self-effacing. not suited for you, however, father, bird of paradise, whose plumage of our wonders not

faceless, whatever you might have hoped for once. glass nevin cemetery, dublin, three july 1995. for those who would rise to meet their work, that work is scaffolding. sacrifice is the cause of ruin. the absence of sacrifice is the cause of ruin. those elections instruct us. northwind is a flat lead lives of the sheltering trees, three desperate mounds in the small square enclosure. souls got built and having hidden. p. gerardus hopkins, 28 july 1844-eight june 1889, page 44. and then the next name, and then the next, soldiers of misfortune

lockstep into a star colored tight resolve, history same the odds, but you, father candescence, you, father fire? whatever rises come together, they say. they say. and one last poem from the i tried to pick poems that -- all my books soon be one last poem the edges runs together going from book to book to book to bookto book, and to try to pick out poems that are maybe part of that flow back and stand individually as well. this one is called american twilight. of course the long meditations were all our lives of tough love for you guys. [laughter] american twilight.

why do i love the sound of children's voices in unknown games so much on a summer's night. lightning bugs lifting heavily out of the dry grass like alien spacecraft looking for higher ground. darkness beginning to sift life coffee grains over the neighborhood. a ball being kicked, surface bill from traffic along the bypass, american twilight, the messages lived in the third heaven. time ticked between okay, let's go come and this earth is not my home. what do i care about? whatever happens will happen with or without us. with or without these irbil emulates. in the first clyde in the heaven of the moon, a little light, half-light over charlottesville.

trees reshaped themselves, the swallows disappear, lawn sprinklers do the wave your nevertheless it's still summer. cicadas pump their boxes, jack russell terriers as they say start barking their heads off, and someone somewhere is putting his first foot, then the second down on the other side. no hand to help him, no tongue to wage its we'll. -- to wedge its we'll. this is called relics. bootsy was an italian writer who wrote a wonderful book called journey to the land of the flies

about sicily, and i enjoyed reading him immensely when i was in italy. after a time, hoss, it makes such a little different whatever what anyone writes. relics it seems other things are always stronger than the thing itself. saints bones of saints blood transcendent architecture what was possible, say, once upon a time. the dogwood bloom, the bank wins and the white ones in blocks and splotches across the desk, like clouds perhaps, mock clouds in a mock have been. the faint out of something un-whirly or otherworldly, lingering in the dark, then not.

it's as though some saint had passed by the side yard. the odor of paradise as bootsy hassett, odor of heaven the faith will say. and what is this odor like, someone who smelled it was asked once? he had no answer and said it doesn't resemble any flower or any bloom were spies on the earth. i would know how to describe it, lingering as the dark comes on. said costa rica walked in the rain without an umbrella and still stay dry. miraculous, yes. he knew he had one of the saints relatives, a pianist who served in once and a penthouse in mulatto.

let's see, a cold spring and carlos phil end of april 2000 but if you can't say what you've got to say in three lines am a better change your style. nobody is born and redeemed. nobody's moonlight golden views in the deadly trees. light wind, black wires humming a speech. we do not speak. listen for us in the dark hours. lesson for us in our need. >> this is a poem called body and soul a dedicated to coleman hearkens, saxophone player who, it is said, i've been told, recorded the first free-form jazz record of this particular song in 1939. this poem is 30 free-form.

the world's body is not our body, although we would have it so to our body is not infinite, although this afternoon under the underwater slant shine of sunlight and cloud shadow, it almost seems that way in the wind, a wind that comes from a world away with its sweet breath and it's hard ton and cass is loose like a cloud, heaven ravaged, blue pocket, small change for the hand. i used to think the power of words was impossible, that how we said the world was how it was, and how it would be. i used to imagine that words way and word thunder would silence the silence and all that. that world's where the word.

that language could lead us inexplicably to grace, as though it were geographical. i used to think these things when i was young. i still do. some poems exist still on the other side of our lives, shine out, but we will never see them. they are inevitable and language without an alphabet, unseen come world long, boom music. too bad. we would know them by heart if we could separate them out in our wounds. too bad, listening hard. clouds of course are everywhere and blue sky in between. blue sky. then what comes after the blue?

our lives, it turns out, are still lives, glass bottle and threw, dead animals, flowers, the edges of this and that which drop off most often to indeterminate vacancy. we are beautiful and hung up to dry. outside the frame, mountains are moving, river splash, a cloud scrambles by, field patches snuggle up to comfort is the a train crosses a trestle. across the room, someone gets up and rearrange his the things. insubstantial smoke, our words come down like think of prince across the page leaving no smudge or mark. and light are purloined cells, they will not rise from the dead. unlike our whimpers and prayers, they lie low and disappear.

this word, that word all fall down. how far from heaven the stars are. how far the hard from the page. we don't know what counts. it's as simple as that, isn't it? we just don't know what counts. midwinter in charlottesville, souls shunned and packed down, crumbs of luck across the backyard and gone on the sons tongue. these are the four lessons i have learned. one or martha graham, the others from here and there. walk as though you've been given one brown eye and one blue. think as though he thought best with somebody else's brain. write as though you have in hand the last pencil on earth pray as though you're praying with somebody else's soul.

and then because i can't stop, when i get a hold of something i like it, this is called body and soul to mac. also dedicated to coleman hawkins, if you know the rest of it. the structure of landscape that ends in the decimal like the structure of music seamless, invisible. even in the rain has larger sutures. what holds the landscape together, and what holds music together is faith, it appears. face of the i, faith of the year. nothing like that in language, however. clouds chugging from west to east like blossoms blown by the wind. april, and anything is possible. here's a story of a buddhist

monk, he went from xian to southern india and back. on horseback, on camelback, on alpha back and on foot. 10,000 miles it took him. 29 to 645. mountains and deserts in search of the truth. the hard of heart of reality, a law that would help him escape and all its attendant and inescapable suffering. and he found it. these days i look at things not through them. and sit down low as far away from the sky as i can get. the reef of the weeping cherry flourishes coral, the neighbor's back porch light bulbs glow like anemones. squid itv news floats forth

overhead. this is a half-hour, half light, half dark, with everything starts to shine out, and aphorisms skulk in the trees. their wings folded, their heads bowed. every troop home is a spark, and aspires to the condition of the original fire arising out of the emptiness. it is that same emptiness it wants to reignite. it is that same engendering it wants to be we engendered by. shooting stars. aprils identical, celestial, wordless, burning down. it's light is the light we can mean by. its destination is our own. its hope is the hope we live with. wang wei, on the other hand,

before he was 30 years old but it seems a state on the wang river just east of the east end of the southern mountains, and lived there, often on, for the rest of his life. he never traveled the landscape, but stayed inside, a a part of nature himself, he thought. and he would say no to someone so bound up in solitude, in failure, he thought, and suffering. afternoon sky the color of cream of wheat, a small dollop of butter hastily of the western age. getting too old and lazy to write poems, i watched the snow fall from the apple trees. landscape, as wang wei says, softens the sharp edges of isolation. don't just do something, sit there. and so i have. so i have picked his seasons curling around like smoke, gone to the end of the earth and back without a sound.

>> i'm going to make the business of mind to write one poem without the word cloud in it. [laughter] i probably won't succeed. this poem is an elegy for my brother-in-law, tim mcintyre who died at the age of 42 or 43, about 20 years ago. is a brilliant young man, the funds got ever met in my life, he was an actor, a musician picking we do anything, especially drink and take cocaine, unfortunately. and this is, the last line of the focus of the last line of a song of his called it's a long way. some sattel, coke copying, bad boozing blues. front porch of the first cabin,

july most likely and then, both of is wearing rubber boots. just out of the photograph beyond the toe of my left foot, where tim and i want action card our initials by working versus for his song, stop by the bar again, voice. both song and singer are gone now, and the railing, too. we all sang in the chorus back in l.a. in the recording studio, paulie and i and bill myers and kelly and johnny rubenstein. the music, so long ago before the coke crashed and the whiskey blows. montana daydreams. los angeles and its dark smooth so soft on the neck. still, i'm working on it. lie still. billy mitchell has just come by,

somebody stole his tools. driggs shot an elegant broke the county rules. sweet don kelly as on his cat, watch out, back away. snuffy bronze is feeding squirrels and crashes baucus. big john taylor has gone outside a half a fifth of jim, with stopped by the bar again. dead frequency, select. over and out. it's mostly a matter of what kind of noise you make. american hot? , for instance, and stand by your man, george jones typecasting for sure. the music, always music, keyboard and guitar, violin, anything with a string. garb and was called fun zone. you up front, poncho on guns, wolf the on base and johnny on the piano. and others until the lights went out.

renaissance boy with coke up your noise and marijuana in your i, we love you the best we could, but nobody loved you enough, except ms. whiskey. you roll in your sweet baby's arms now, as once you said you would. and lay your body down in your meadow, in the mountains all alone. >> this is called bedtime story. the generator hums like a distant dawn and see. it's early evening and time like the dog it is, it is hungry for food. and will be fed, don't doubt it. will be fed, my small one. the force begins to gather its silences in the amount of recruits and hunkers down for

its cleft feet. something is ringing the rack of sunlight and actually out and hanging. something is making the reeds bend and cover their heads. something is licking the shadows up, and stringing the blank spaces along, filling the men. something is inching its way into our hearts, scratching its blue nails against the wall there. should we let it in? should we greet it as it deserves, hands on our ears, mouths open? or should we bring in a chair to sit on, and offer it meet? should return on the radio, should we clap our hands and dance that something dance, the welcoming something dance? i think we should, love, i think we should.

time will tell. time was when time was not in the world in uncut lawn ready for sizing. we looked and took the job in hand, birds burst from my thing is, cities appeared and small towns in the interim. we love them all. in distant countries, tides nibble or two feet on pebble the shores with their soft teeth and lingers upon. words formed and flew from our fingers. we listened and loved them all. now, finitude commodes like antimatter, not this, not that. and everywhere like a presence one bumps into, oblivious, unwittingly, excuse me.

i beg your pardon. but time has no pardon to beg and no excuses. the wind and the meadow grasses, the wind through the rocks bends and breaks whatever it touches. and never the same wind in the same spot, but it's still the wind and blows in its one direction, northwest to southeast, and ointment upon the skin. a little saliva, time with its murderous becomes that pale windowless throat, its mouth pressed to our mouth. pushing the breath in, pulling it out. >> i don't think i had a cloud in that. this one is called let a working man lay down. a line from a song by a lot of

people. lester flood and earl scruggs is where i got it from. -- lester flood. the kingdom of minutia, the thai place for most of us live is the kingdom of the saved. those who exist between the cracks. those just under the details. when the hand comes down, the wing white and can we are the heads of hair and finger bones getting out of their shoes. we are the raptures of children. as i said, i can see all the doors of the houses of episcopalians coming out and saying, where in hell did everybody go? what ar i though she was doing t there? [laughter] i'm an episcopalian. [laughter] where did everybody go? with horse sitting on the platform waiting for the robert

e. lee, that's a great time, the poem is not so good but when -- [laughter] when you get to the point where your titles are more interesting than your poem, you know you should have laid your pencil down. [laughter] sitting on -- horace had a farm outside of rome and spent all his time there. most of his time there. 70 years and what's left? better still, what's gone before. a couple of lines a day or two out in the cold, and all those books, those half-baked books, sweet east for the yellow dust. what say you? like you i am saying and live at the edges of things. countryside flooded with light, sun down, the chaos of future morning just over the ridge. not here yet.

let's see. i should be released. there's a consolation beyond nomenclature of what is past is about to pass, though i don't know what it is, but someone somewhere must, and this is addressed to him. come on, long eyes. cracked the book, from -- come to the pages and stop at the one with the golden script to lay it on me. and one last one. when the horses gallop away from us it's a good thing. i always find it strange that i shouldn't comment creatures don't care for us the way we care for them. horses, for instance, and chipmunks in any bird you would

name. empathy is only a one way street. that's all right, i've come to believe. it sets us up for ultimate things come and for ultimate ones as well. it's a good lesson to have in your pocket when the call comes to call. i've got three or four more here. short when. this one is called grace 2 which presupposes grace 1, which, in fact, exists. [laughter] somewhere back there in all those books can half-baked books with the yellow dust. [laughter] it's true, the aspirations of youth or down to charge trips of the year tonight only memories are my company and my grace. how nice if they could outlive us, but they can't, or won't.

no indian summer for us. it's rough and its growing dark. this unsettling the full moon up by its long fingernails. it's better this way. the unforgiven are pure, as are the unremembered. i love two centuries enforcement actual i went on a 26 several times. this is called sentences 2. last chapter, last verse. everything is brown now in the golden field can threshing of the past is passed to the mountain of the future like cusp into little boxes. the sun backs down over the ridge line it's five after seven. the landscape is on its black mask, settles into its

sleeplessness. the fish will transpose it, half of themselves, half of the order 10,000 miles away at the end of the darkening stream. to live a pure life, to live a true life is to live the life of an insect. and two more, if i can find -- so, yes. shadow and smoke. i attribute this thing to share the bar because that's why represents me as got to be a japanese going from 3000 years ago. later life as though you're already dead, shekhar barro --

che guevara declared. okay, let's see how that works. not much difference as far as i can see, the earth the same paradise its always wanted to be. heaven as far away as before, the clouds the same old movable gates since time began. there is no circle, there is no sentiment to be broken. there are only the songs of young men, and the songs of old men, hoping for something else. disabuse them in their ignorance, lord, taliban the shadows are already gone, the smoke already cleared, tell them that light is never a metaphor. and the poem i always close when i read, i've never read it before in my life. [laughter] which seems like i should -- is called global by. i've said what i have to say as

melodiously it was given to me. i've said what i had to say as far down as i could go. i've been everywhere i wanted to but jerusalem, which doesn't exist exciting as it's time to depart. time to go, time to meet those you've never met, time to say goodnight. grant us silence, grant us no reply. grant is shadows and for cohort across the sky. [applause]