(BLURB)~~~~~~~
permit me to ramble.
i heard recently of some people refusing to kneel at their
church. there are ways to avoid such quandaries. but we all
forge our own dramas. and they seem to come in such unending
variety. the tumult and smoke we inject into the fabric in
order to whip up a better story then the live-pay-taxes-die
scenario. we all want a juicier plot then the one we'll rot
in. so we carry on, and we carry on so.
so i've been wondering; if i could manage to tinker all that
fracas and pandemonium out of my life would i then be free or
bereft of it? where would the laughs be sans all the brouhaha?
and yet still i ponder the monastic life. or the gypsy life.
or any life a tad less cluttered and screenlocked. it's unbecoming
to thus pine. yet this futility, it's my favorite wine. or do i
mean whine?
We only have this excerpt
Stop trying to say; listen
The fibers are showing
Words of prayer as
Birds of prey
Mortified minds are mean mutilations
Previous pleasures are petrified pillows
Abominable fancies are fanatic abortions
Nominal secretions are secret mnemonics
So we pay for our fires
With hen pecked intestines
Rolling our stones and
Shouldering our skies
There are 10,000 ways
To fall asleep but
The feathers are showing
the world as a falling screen of
Systemic decay in frantic distention
Endless encryption; hint
The password is onion
Various vowels turn up extra
Wiping up after with torn sheets
of forbidden scrolls whispering
Pity for the flightless
And yet we only have this one
Excerpt
The fibers are showing
Words of prayer are
Birds of prey
show & tell
why don't you show and tell?
why don't you ever confess?
that picture you sent of you,
was it one hundred years old
what was my character supposed to think?
why don't you show and tell?
where is that rhythm you sent?
it tasted like 100 pictures,
but why where they all folded?
why don't you ever confess,
how mean it is to matter ...
was it my character that started to shrink?
why don't you show and tell?
young soul
during the final scenes
of the death of irony
i could not hold my water.
i didn't expect the crowds
that lined and choked the lobby
munching corn & milling about
like sheep blocking an intersection.
i had no horn.
i swallowed my annoyance.
in the stall on the wall
someone had scrawled
opaque predictions,
and to the right of the roll,
marked in runes small and odd
i understood, somehow, to read:
"you are a young soul"
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