“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, April 20, 2017
The wind was long
If I wrote 'Now' one thousand times-
Now, Now, Now-
am I not lying? Redundantly (pro)posing nothing new
on the page-
Now, Gertrude may say
the same,
Now
there is no such thing like the thing itself,
repetition of point...
like Moore's Law-only holds so many holes
before disappearing
all together.
In soundness, over and over
is a slingshot past Here-
reason being no longer
enunciates itself
as individual
thingness and parsimony
it seems to me we should have
been focused on the duplicates
observing patterns of double talk
scholars without abjection to empty words,
placeholders or so called meta-
or merely masters by degrees
From this angle
Now was never
the center
errant signals disconnect
the radii from the thing.
Portrait of Gertrude Stein by FĂ©lix Vallotton (1907) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...
No comments:
Post a Comment