Evidently

Reporting without empathy makes architectural field guides for photo collectors

As album and lyricality that reflects memories in places via accidental captures,

Not limited to focus head on or red eye, not what was hiding under green-eyed

History, flash or glare,

Was the background, dropped, crooked, tiny, partial.

And parts where the edges sever our attention in sharp lines,

Bordering on continental jagged tears.

Only here-footsteps-show-Not ahead of our time,

Not dated, or inscribed

In any hand of another traveler.

Repeatedly, things recur, we call facts,

Likelihoods, charts, and possibilities as solid as paper rocks and

Finger scissors. 

Image taken 1938, 'Fedorov at the North Pole' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What lies ahead

Sun lifting the veil of purple sky-

might bronze forge strength

pungent as the turned dirt?

Thirsting through 

exposition, hide and seek,

those are lost and winding back 

around-

those that reap

shall be held against the light

shall cast atonement into the shadows-

thou shalt be measured against the day.

All ways an arm's length

a way-in every direction

aimed 

this focus spares no details 

no enunciation of echoes

when molding bodies

come to day with arsenals

of color intended to define us

by just what they had

known and felt 

against all alchemy

made from the excesses,

there was the sky 

with directions. 

Painting by Maksymilian Gierymski c. 1869 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Binding bed

Sought intimate spaces

for self-

lost private places

for nurturing health.

Grew weary with waning

insistence,

wilted and arid, the stem

aches with thirst

the worst exposure

to lunar light

this side of mourning

the death of circus dreams.

It seems the sun disperses

its golden dust

according to an architecture

of ideal.

Beholden to the barriers molded

by hand-

curses stand as they must, in spite of us

for a time.

As last

sunsets free

the stars, placing winking faces

astronomical units apart

and fixed on never being

yours or mine.

“Our tendency to build walls is useful only to provide a starting point for self-definition, walls that contain the bed in which we are born, in which we dream, we breed and we die; but outside the walls lies Siddhartha;s realization that all human beings grow old, all are prone to nightmare and disease, and all must ultimately come to the same implacable end. Books endlessly repeat that one same story.” (“The Library at Night” by Alberto Manguel p. 229)

Artwork by Evelyn De Morgan, 'The Prisoner' c. 1908 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Social security

Unless you were born
a boy
with silky chestnut hair
shaped like a perfect bowl of soft wound thread
nested as in a kitten ball
atop an angelic head dappled with
a sole magic dimple under the high arched
cheekbone amidst
perfectly placed and sized features,
jawlines of a steed,
eyes of witches hazel,
long indulgent black lashes,
long limber legs, strong steel shoulders
broad aspirations
long ago,
No-
you will not be chosen
as the one that was
a man for all ages
a perfect fit,
the right breed,
hand(y)some or skillful.

The rest shall be
Employees.



Painting by Benjamin Haydon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

All ways equals Why

Because we discuss our collective fate along with current weather conditions,
because we attribute the excessive bloom of flowers to wild fires and trained bombs,
because we consider patterns relevant to us, Alone gathering anthropo-scenic views called 'experience'
because we started it all and made it bigger than we imagined we could
not manage to consume but tried with busyness, settling more acreage of earth piling up with paranoia than non-
biodegradable trash and we will ask about plastics as in permanence as if this was a Thing-
How did we get so scared of Being wrong, or Right or Just being?
Because we were starving but could not manage to eat another morsel of information,
GMO, TMI lined with BPA and other sterilizers, for safety.
We felt tired, too precautious and nauseous but forced to moved on.
Because none of us saved our energy for ourself,
because the reasons were not lining up, or justifiable by reason,
because these many motivations made centripetal mirages of us
we had nothing left
but the thinnest hope
to collapse into a wave function and recognize our own ripples.




Image By Henry Peach Robinson (British, 1830 - 1901) (1830 - 1901) – photographer (British) Details of artist on Google Art Project [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The last volume

This last couple of pages 

I have edited quite impartially and frankly

heartlessly or as autonomous as could be 

anyway,

and I mean that in a most familial way.

This closing volume,2017 in the year XLI

much was burned,

including bridges and outback structures,

dilapidated and in need of wildflowers

after all these years of standing 

and resisting color.

This is why some things remain

and others leave no trace.

There was once a line,

or anchor

I cut

this year.

To say only the most necessary things,

required no speech or recapitulation

of histories and books burned all the way 

through to The End. 

Painting by Yehuda Pen [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

l's and o's

It had been many revolutions
of a circular orbit
since the scribe had a
handle on things.

In such rapidly spinning
vertiginous times, you know
how hands go up
and loose things fly off.

It was still
that way,
the empty cavernous pages,
the sunken and smudged knuckle,
the barren creased hand
that holds a space
for words to line up with others,

and it won't happen today.
Again, the scribe refused
to record a statement,

for there was nothing left in the hourglass-
in the water pitcher-
in the ink cartridge-
in the world
to turn around
clockwise.

Undeterred, scribe scribbles through the days
of notation and inventory
until all is spent and broken with
vocabulary and slang pronunciations.

For the construction of solid thoughts and building
nations, do not rely too heavily on the current degrees
of angular trajectory
or wishes without a final destination.

The lines all disappeared, finally
nobody waited around to hear
the words that came before
Here, here
the echo never said who
I am
scratching the surface with lines none would read.





Image By Creator:Guercino (Giovanni Francesco Barbieri) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.