Showing posts with label to do. Show all posts
Showing posts with label to do. Show all posts

Friday, November 17, 2017

Agendas


It was never about the invention and the potential
Lives it would save,

It was about who would be written into History as the Hero.
Humphry Davey tried to hide his poetry but stole the lamp.

All for naught, while I sat in the reader's circle, stitching
around Cat’s Cradle-the Dissertation,
and  getting into mining
text instead of ice-nine, we found something like 
fire-ten
and it is spreading.

They were all over the place, Vietnam, Silicon Valley,
East and west coasts, away from the story 
and as Vonnegut said,
Disappearing up its own-
Never-mine-

The kids are still mining for cobalt in the Congo.

No, no, no better. In any language
even with repetition. When does practice make
better-off schadenfreude
Karma is driven toward the one who hit my car 
and drove away.

The grandma laughs at the puke from her grandson.
That makes her son puke too,
and she gets her just desserts 
in between the seats.
We both like the smell of horse manure. 

Italo is easily distracted at first, every day, I should stop 
feeling “death hath undone so many”*.
“In headaches and in worry, 
Vaguely life leaks away
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day”**, as Auden would say.

Of course, the dryer refused to spin,
the bills keep pouring in, and there are two-thousand
nine-hundred synonyms for drunk, but sober I remain
loaded on the sole adjective, waiting on the verb
of Time. 

Meanwhile, inspiration is found in flying buttresses, 
among the changing sky, ribbed vaults and pointed arches 
that withstood thirty percent more stress.
Oh yes, it was time again
to act as if one never knows

how things come together.




*T.S. Eliot and **W.H. Auden

Painting by Frank Dobson, 1944 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, September 29, 2017

A genda


Today, I will write,
Paint, read, make marks in space(s)
Empty of purpose ( ). 



Painting by Nicolas Henri Jeaurat de Bertry (1777) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.


Friday, March 24, 2017

How the paper crumbles


Tiny tufts of binder paper speckle the ground like bread
crumbs leading to the bulging trash bin.

A blotched tattoo on the outside of the right pinkie,
signal lines filled in and out, a writers stamp.

That far away look is not a place others may go.

Declawed and domesticated, the body observes
and stalks the other.

Taking it all in scraps left over much too much,
nauseated, not needing much more
than nibbles found inside spiral ring cages, 
scratches to self, all
half-fulfilled by my stunted scepter.

Thinking there was more than enough time
to put the ending first, to do the editing in trim tufts,
to say this is my home, this is lace, this belongs
and this is sewn to hold more

meaning, 
to say here is a poem
and poof, it is flown away.


Image By Anonymous [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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