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D.M. Siciliano

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“He Is Not Dead I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away. With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn For an old-time step, and the glad return, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here. Think of him still as the same. I say, He is not dead—he is just away.”

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“Dawn through the window woke me. I placed an extra pillow over my face to block it. When Amber woke, she panicked that the ghost children were smothering me. She was not going to stop the ghost children, but she was going to observe and record. Even at the expense of my life, she figured I would rather have been a part of the paranormal, particularly if it made for an entertaining story at her murder trial.”

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“The automatic carriage-return on the typewriter, electronic central locking of cars: these are the things that count. The rest is just theory and literature. Space is what prevents everything from being in the same place. Language is what prevents everything from meaning the same thing. My hand, separated from me, dreams it is holding a breast. Nothing fills a hand better than a breast. Stereotype of a sadistic tenderness. This journal develops, as its title indicates, over the course of time. However it is haunted by something which preceded it, the secret underlying event.”

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“There is an essay on the language of the dying. The dying sometimes speak of themselves in the third person. I was not speaking that way. I said: I am bleeding. I am going to bleed to death. And I will be lucky if I die before he returns. Give me my Scallop shell of quiet. You know, they did not print the whole of the Indian song in the subway. Only a few lines. But I know the poem. 'It's off in the distance. It came into the room. It's here in the circle.' I know the poem. She knows the poem.”

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