Am I able to say I would like to carry you to that
oblique lake overseas, where we can still imagine
“the early 19th Century twilight,” and from the
trestle see how a self-determining logic in the
form of rationally organized matter—the luster of
metal, a vanishing glimpse of the moon or the sun,
a smile—becomes conscious, self-conscious, through us;
a freedom emptied out into that time we were
rambling to and fro like the rivers, and the dust
blanketed inscriptions on pulp condoned from trees
planted with the depths and heights of the human
heart as such? Yet how can we picture abstractions
that we can not live in alone, but perhaps to
imagine, with this, a criss-cross movement of
subjective expressions, views, and attitudes where
I sacrifice myselfs and my topics alike to a faith
we know is unwarranted, a slant illustration of
what we’ve agreed to call truth; the shimmer
of a bunch of grapes by candlelight, its joys
and sorrows, its strivings, deeds, and fates.
* * *
And when I say “this” I mean this, philosophy,
or pottery, or e-mails and short tweets between us.
And when I say “us” I don’t just mean the two of us,
you and me, but humanity. Of course, the abstract
is always felt through the concrete, as, when our
arms were touching, I felt what I am unable to say.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
Reason is terrible,
when
its certainty of being
all reality has been
raised
to the level of truth,
and reason is
consciously
aware
of itself
as its own world,
and of the world
as itself.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
Robert Burns
Had side-burns
No Grecian Urns and Nightingales for he,
But a mug of ale, and frippery.
T. S. Elliot
Went to hell, I guess.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Robert Burns
Had side-burns
No Grecian Urns and Nightingales for he,
But a mug of ale, and frippery.
T. S. Elliot
Went to hell, I guess.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
The birch’s white bark’s lines
Grow larger in the growing time
But darker when the leaves all go
And limbs are foreground for the snow.
Your tongue shaped air that passed your lips,
And tastes the air that enters in, in sips.
I wish my pen could let my words all go
And lick you, now, from tongue to toe.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
My heart, unlike a rose,
rose like a bird, and flew
towards the reflected light
right into a window,
and falling seven stories down,
met the ground with a small thud,
a mangled pile of feathers, blood.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
He came here, and said, in passing,
“The town meeting was adjourned
due to the tower.” The expanding
image of the tower, and the shadow
of the adjournment creped and dovetailed,
until dissolving perceptions at the periphery
changed into what remained of the familiar
and washed away in diminishing September
twilight tributaries of great modern rivers, now
adjured, now forgotten. But, despite adjudication
and adjustment, a question remained, became a
void in the forest, flattened its shadow, biding its time.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
The other marjoram and the clothes
Are chimes inverted for her story,
What if we had chives, asparagus?
And what, asparagus, if we had chives?
Why did all that rain fall
All day in the grounds
And on the bird feeders,
And through the clearing?
The neatest patrons are back,
Their statue tortured by your autumn sweater.
Then there is the storm of receipts.
The salad bowel needs sanding, but not this
Fall. Scatter the remaining marjoram like dust.
Sweet peas from melancholy gardens
Sautéed over her faux tofu.
Fruit flies like a banana.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
. “No, don't warn me I know it's wrong
But I swear it won't take long”
- Yo La Tengo
“Relations are more important than the things they relate,”
your old comrade said, in the late afternoon session,
in that city behind the taciturn mountains, his hair
now colorless as snow, which came late this winter,
not unexpected, but a surprise none-the-less,
like an off-color joke at an increasingly drunken
party, filled with relations and old friends, who
had come from – but enough, this sentence is
to long already, and must stop now! But why?
Won’t it just be followed by other sentences?
And they will still be connected to the last.
But, again, why? Is everything connected?
Perhaps, yes, in the bigger picture, but we can
not always be in that position, must glide like
rivers, understand through concrete images,
cement our small innovations in place, and
re-enforce them -- béton armé it’s called, in France --
Oh! France! Land of Paris, capital of the 19th Century,
with its naïve progress, its precursors, and its
unconscious serenest seeds, rêves and nightmares.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
For personnel
I’m person L-2.
Not per Sun
(shun nature,
your alien nation inside)
but per Cent.
Time our time
count time slots
by the cent
carry only the remainder to
Sunday. The rest
for you.
66 per cent of me for me
33 per cent of me for you
compounded daily
fragmented,
The hands
The back
The brain
The heart
and we must buy back
parts of parts.
9% carbon and 90% water
can be brought to boil
Copper and oil
can be taught to toil.
Sly,
sliced and diced,
a die:
A Rubric Cubed
(there’s the rub)
each side, each face
a place out side.
Can we learn
assisted
to put the faces together
Or are we turned
and twisted
forever.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC