Friday, December 19, 2014

Yes, Penelope


What moved in neverchanging space:
an incomplete carnal liberty
light above the circles of the most temporary
Me: a narrator of motion; describer of
invisible fits of reflection and absences
These thoughts- shadows of wind
projected along tracks until
reaching their destinations where
they become gradations of incomprehension.


Weary childman
your jailor joins you- sealike
in the dark bed running aground
here, in Ithaca, you return
to the land of the squared egg and
the bridge to the darker moon.
Wait the brightday, traveler.


Yes, Penelope.
Never so weak as waiting for
the cover of education. A month of dogs, you say?
The matter was all pretended well before you were born
the tragic bed so interesting
the razor, the beard the dirty photo, all
eaten til nothing left but
The dying dress and woven-unwoven face
in a sickened city
fear imagined
poisoned love.

Here, we depart.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

12-Sided Abyss


My selfprolonging impersonation
acquired a force of preordained assassination
it was humiliation, separation and sustained by fallacy
there was a pretense of final equilibrium but
witnesses all came with variations,
their circumstances artificial,
Their outrage concealed.
A violation of existence may have occurred.
An organism interrupted
In its successful imitation
Of inevitable depreciation.
In the end I was conscious
Of sentimental reflection
And intangibility.


Approximately kissed by the sun
Silence became visible.
The Islands of virtue
amid these stars were places where
Apathy was explored and
futility was celebrated.

Midnight, you came in on a wave of inanity
and burned your vessels in stupid triumph.
The yellow furrows of asses,
Inhabitable by steady conquest,
Left these pilgrims mute and lethargic.


Daedalus is limited
his story of Aeronautical performance
Eclipsed by tragic modification.
Witnesses mentioned there were
streamers of flowers
And celebrations by the survivor.