A study the size of a fallen book,

a carpenter's Sabbath.

A broken candle's muddy light--its

austere wimple.

A wooden desk dragged still, a half

still life.

Whose prehistoric scree-roar, sine

waves a crack on the wall.

A medieval ruff connected to a

hand-sharpened pencil on the floor.

Used for measuring the poem of an

unmade chair.

Caddy corner wooden shelf practicing

the faith of books.

As it takes years to read thru sawdust.

The following is an idiomatic coupling

where quotation have marks flapped

away: In the realm of possibility,

everything happens for a reason.

The above sentence seems cogent

enough, but is mutually exclusive.

Which idiom negates the other?

Is the realm of possibility predetermined,

is that the implication--or is it a chaotic

outcome?

It seems completely reinforced by:

everything happens for a reason.

Which of its own seems to imply an

ordered, higher power.

Yet--it also seems completely reinforced

by: in the realm of possibility, as if:

everything happens for a reason, is

what washes up--is the outcome of

possibility.

The former idiom implies a forgone

higher power, & a rawly chaotic outcome.

The later idiom implies a higher power,

& a purely harmonic outcome.

Taken at face value, these idioms negate

one another--yet paradoxically seem to

sync chaos & harmony.

It's almost as if they give rise to a deeper

meaning when juxtaposed.

Fictional characters never earn their

end--which's to say being killed off by

their author.

I know because I have set about to ****

off my own fictional character--who has

earned his end.

Suicide would be too literal, he's rather

literary.

I'm sorry Mr. Bloom, Shakespeare did

not invent the human being--he survived

his characters, not himself.

Phenomenal progress has been made, by

virtue of this being written.

You see--he's not transparent, nor is he an

open book, yet he tells me what I look

like.

The one that sees through him at all cost.

As if an entire jail population reached

thru bars to mirror other inmates.

Who could contend with so many

features?

Changing with every thought &

interaction--his slow death is natural, it

cannot be hastened.

It's more accurate to say that this fictional

character is dying, even when no one is

reading.

It was during a frenzy of  being written

while writing, that the two were

authentically enjoined.

To this might I add, the throes of death

are not dead.

Sunday can be as desperate as Napoleon
escaping from the island of Elba, on a
ship called: "Inconstant".
Factor in cold rain on the back of a winter coat, which can feel injurious.
As you backhandedly swipe to assess
seepage--a punitive glut that glazes your
hand, as if touch acts confused to ride out
reaction.
It's when your hand becomes the total
amount of precip your region received.
All of a sudden it's Sunday again--& I
observed the demographic plunge certain
major fast food chains take in sharing a
location.
No partition, just a judiciously open space
between two legendary counters.
That godawful defibrillator lighting stuck
to the ceiling.
Two distinctive sumtotal aromas that
run thru memories as firsts--somehow
refuse to coalesce, creating an aromatic
fissure.
This undoubtedly stimulates indecision
in customers, which sees a percentage
opting for both.
With the proviso that such diplomacy will
probably ruin the experience.
Or regretting the chain they purchased,
vice versa.
It's not like a food court, which's like a
stadium rock concert--where sound as
scent can get away from you.
It's an up close & personal concert.
That said, something about seeing a few
people eating alone on a Sunday had
such an anticlimactic sadness to it.
They appeared prolonged, adaptively rooted to what's designed to get them out.
They weren't going to leave until the
mindscape of a tray was worked out.

Aphrodite humors snow's request for

barefootedness--as if asking after weight.

Her heels presume no more than the

palms of her hands.

So winter takes her by the feet, & she

needn't endear herself by saying she

could only imagine.

Aphrodite goes on, in a way that uses

her name in vain.

It's all white, but her whereabouts are

whiter--she remains as what has its rest

of a field.

Even snow leverages the sky--while

Aphrodite wiggles her rosy toes on its

plinth.

She could almost topple into their

suspension--though death will come to

its senses.

Aphrodite receives snowflakes the way

a saint does devotees--their hexagonal

identities.

Exiting six exits at once, one at a time--

forming, floating, melting.

That's when snow stares at itself, creating

a glow seen galaxies away.

A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.