Saturday, December 28, 2013

MOB, Or What I Can Look Forward To







muffed to a chair, resplendent with
water-willows and
tempted to turn a new course
with a new year approaching

or, there is no new
nothing – aghast at the
news and tempered with
traditions always left broken

but any angry mob can and will
will itself into a storm of new
nothingness – again, aghast






at the news




Absence/Adjunct





[                                                       }





We belong to a party where the champagne has been drunk free and done with. We tumble in a turnabout where there is no exit, no natural recourse to our driving, not mindlessly, just without a remembrance of guilt. The family in the lily pool of entertainment embellishes the stubborn means that makes means lacking. The heavy petting hinges out an acute bravado, one that makes monsters of those we love. From Vesuvius to the shack story of speech, we are still stuck in our own selves, however ashen those words may become. This is not to imagine a society in falseworks or furnishing the world like a Rousseau-ian glove. No, no many is so pat a pattern of touchstones. The trample of hooves stood near and dear over me, nevertheless makes one succumb. The quotidian gestural nuance of indexes and faces leaves such matters un-absolvable. The structures of absence leave nothing left but absence and the fact of so remains so. I still call absence, by being a word, being a thing, to be nothing but a general assumption that nothing means something. If we are left with nothing but the village logic of another absence makes our nothing greater, we are left with nothing but our own futures, as hollow and fragile as dust. But dust remains a substance of furniture we blot out, wipe away, out of tidiness, of order, of general health and cleanliness. The permanence of what we wipe away renders us incognizant of what is there, that nothing can be wiped away either by cloth or sword or swipe. At our party, the modernity of knowledge only causes us to lose sight even further, rendered in miniscule details that merely wipe away the nothing that we’ve always felt we lacked. We’ve burned books in order to bond with the history we know not well. We glean all material out of habit and sugar-coated spite, rendering the fiction that we have some choice nervously approaching defeat. The domestic markets of sublime are shaded with naïve symbolism that is tested in order to not be defeated by purposed psych












Monday, December 2, 2013

Haiku Foxtrot








Blended, and a blessed
beautiful in our unders
a balanced becalmed.







I remember the
fallen token of our short
shrift upon the wave.

While you become the
dancer in our dance of some-
thing because you’re there.







Close to the left foot
our embarrassment a fool
and that’s on us, again.







Charm becomes the end
a rational couple
coupled in the end.

What reaches the end
furious in the end game
and beautiful still.







Sunday, December 1, 2013

All Doors Lead







The tragedy of life
is witnessing
so many doors.

Booth claimed
the book as both
tragedy and farce.

I cannot claim
all sorrows and
successes as my own.

I do, though, still
rub my feet, fleetingly
upon entering, entirely.