The Sign on the Gate

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
We don't require your magic fire
That burns and burns in snow and rain
We ought not to have to ask again
About the orange and silver wire
And the boxes that just glow black
The music liable to give a heart attack
Maybe you've heard a thing or two
That we're Luddites, Fundamentalists
Overseers of great prohibition lists --
Or perhaps you've heard our canticle:
"Artifice is grand and much befitting, wealth
But every child must learn one day
To keep his hands to himself."


The Sage Considers the Bishop's Advice

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
You have not heard from me
In long, perhaps, you think me dead
Is it rather I am lost inside my head
But this is no matter you see
We wonder if we shall ever find
The way back to our own kind
The wind of change - it is strong
To oppose it directly - no human thing
No foot, no wheel, no tread, no wing
Will avail against its gale for long
The prince of the air! But cast out
Is he who once rode its brazen rout
And so the whirlwind without mind
Reels us towards a dizzy cliff
End becomes when, not if
The wise find something strong to bind
But the bold overcome it quite simply -
When they move diagonally.


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.