Rest In Peace

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Do they not know or did someone gainsay
That this day - the grave became Paradise
Our words fail, it is not impressive nor nice
It is Kyriake, now by far the tallest day
In the heaven of heavens it is peeking out--
"Tall?" you say, as if in sheer doubt
You can remember to forget what today is about.


Under The Legs of the Highway

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Under the legs of the highway we are
Not large for our genetic strength
Not great for the exacting length
We went for equality to par
Our difference of dignity so far;

Under the legs of the highway we are
But children again on tiny feet
Infantile even should we meet
Another in our magnificent car
Or in a mob of pitch and tar;

Under the legs of the highway we are
Equal in our inconsequence
Just barely noticed should we jump the fence
Nothing need be done, the gate's ajar
Shadowed from their petty war;

Great legs overshadow us
The monster they call progress
But so lost it is from human scale
If we were gone who would tell the tale
Of us traveling light to the farthest star
But under the legs of the highway we are.


Oculus Rift

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
That glowering eye, writhing inside
Does it even see- is it that which sees
Or do we through it, that disease
Of film, of misshapen form and size
See only ourselves- inside ourselves?
Is the eye the oculus or something else
Do we know the question to ask or would
We want the answer if to us it was given?
Is inside it light or darkness, even?
Or is it that chiaroscuro that should
Be knowledge of what woe betide-
That glowering eye, writhing inside?


Howling At All Hours

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
I stood in the car - then I walked
I walked forward as the car went back
And what carried me in the slack
Of the invisible courses that stalked
Unseen forces that thrust and pull
And accelerate away but the soul
Which walks against them gets wings
Like Hermes of old - but shoes
Did not in their moment just lose
Their plain sole, flat black which brings
To mind no such myth to be told
No myth like Hermes of old -
It moves forward, into an ever-new
But its track is worn down to dust
Back it goes, back then going I must
Through the horrible wind go through --
Quietly the passengers sat and talked
I stood in the car - then I walked.
a postscript is here written:
instant outside in publishing



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
Black on black, as gloss on matte
Are the colors of our knowing
They have no light in them going
In or out, but doubt is flat
And the sun is not forthcoming.

Synthesis! The thought is this
When experience shatters your perception
You must alter your conception
Quickly, for this not remiss
Lest you pass onto exhaustion.

Discipline, I shall say then
Must be your greatest teacher
What was bug must become feature
For to the soul you search within
And in this way you may reach her.

The small contours the great ignores
Form the subtle marks of the real
This obliqueness is its seal
To look askance one abhors
As if to do so was to steal.

So to see the truth as if with sight
Takes not opening every door
I have concluded all the more
It will suffice to turn on the light
And put one's face upon the floor.


The False Bohemian

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
A stain is upon the canvas
Smudged like an ape's smudge
With its own excrement --
Men with clogged noses
Minds asleep with exhaustion
Swollen from snoring and snorting
Courage for their cowardice
Cannot smell the putrid scent.

The bohemian laughs in derision
At men drunk with pleasure
His saturnine countenance sours
With cruelty and charm
Scorn that perhaps loves or does not
Needs not niceness for its confirmation
Nor proof for its compassion
For these who cannot suffer long.

That which is unbounded
Must be bigger than the sun
You think of the frail walls
And find them bourgeois and small
Or mean and base, but a foundation
Is lower than all things and so
You will be poured out and drunk
By men coarse, wan and strange.

Listen to those who reach upward
Even the fools, do you hear
If they preached your religion
Or pricked your ear with rumors
Or ate with all sinners
Or wept over butterflies
Or could not hold their vessel
You would listen to them;

But hard and small and perfect
You roll like a marble
Full of chemical romances
Of reports of brotherhood
When the patricians are all dead
The great are just burghers
And those who trade in letters
Are but peasants who think they can read.
a postscript is here written:
Bankstonia william burroghs

"when the fundamentalists finally do eat you alive, I will pray for your soul."


Aim: Beauty

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The one poem I will have spoken
Will be but once, not written, but made
Unrepeated, once uttered will fade
And a surely as silence was by it broken
It will once again be as dumb as the sod
An as nightengale-song is with fleeting shod
It will be remembered only by God.