12-08-2018, 07:05 PM
Crisis-Poem
If there is no hell,
for what is the scratching,
this slim feat of digging
upwards, pulling a fiction
down upon you,
you, in your desert household,
we in our theater of pages?
This is a popular pleasure,
as much a joy as a criticism;
an unwrinkling of the mind-held brow.
What a light source is this
facsimile of the sun,
a toy car or wings
for adult amusement.
If there is no hell,
all tears are wedding tears.
And what an arrangement.
In congenial presents,
irony has no place
beyond satire.
Stoutly explicit,
and free, freedom
itself capitulates.
Some suffer anyway,
born to scream
a breast of healthier milk.
Find reality bitter.
Short of eschewing a fitting
cognition, blows noneuclidian
smoke circles,
rings of many colors,
and hoarse voice.
The Chicagoeans lounge comfortable
in their knowledge of fate,
cozy in their fathers' sweater
by the warmth of the coffee
steaming french-like dreams
and autobiography, choosing
carefully word and tone
or eastern european candor
politic and concise.
The clarity will expose you
from deep within your well,
redskin plucker, show your
hollow instrument as you sound out
on their substance.
Inscrutable fanfare, any rate.
Some butter sandwiches, some butter
grits, at home where the life is written;
or out of a paper grocery bag
caught on a twig, where he just had another occasion;
the substance remains caught up in life.
It doesn't carry over into song.
What there is besides life
is ignorance battling ignorance,
one profoundly doubtful,
the other so stupidly sure.
There is no contest at all,
no lines on passionate intensity.
They meet only in passing,
if that even.
The only bogie is failure,
frustration of getting it all
down. A sea of attempts,
and so few ships amid all
the unauthorized swimmers.
And those that can't,
sitting in houses in waking dreams
too quick to lay;
lives too living to hold any formula.
Milk, bread, a candle for emergencies or odor.
As humdrum as it comes to be,
success is the only defense against evil.
A wash cloth here, an answer there.
Will we still impregnate our skies with heavens
and sing so loutishly in the rain
and advance on foot through rush hour traffic?
To the beach where the empty sand resembles an island.
Will we launch our voice from shore to shore?
Will Michelangelo's Adam point toward nothing,
and nothing tempt us not to try anything at all?
If there is no hell,
for what is the scratching,
this slim feat of digging
upwards, pulling a fiction
down upon you,
you, in your desert household,
we in our theater of pages?
This is a popular pleasure,
as much a joy as a criticism;
an unwrinkling of the mind-held brow.
What a light source is this
facsimile of the sun,
a toy car or wings
for adult amusement.
If there is no hell,
all tears are wedding tears.
And what an arrangement.
In congenial presents,
irony has no place
beyond satire.
Stoutly explicit,
and free, freedom
itself capitulates.
Some suffer anyway,
born to scream
a breast of healthier milk.
Find reality bitter.
Short of eschewing a fitting
cognition, blows noneuclidian
smoke circles,
rings of many colors,
and hoarse voice.
The Chicagoeans lounge comfortable
in their knowledge of fate,
cozy in their fathers' sweater
by the warmth of the coffee
steaming french-like dreams
and autobiography, choosing
carefully word and tone
or eastern european candor
politic and concise.
The clarity will expose you
from deep within your well,
redskin plucker, show your
hollow instrument as you sound out
on their substance.
Inscrutable fanfare, any rate.
Some butter sandwiches, some butter
grits, at home where the life is written;
or out of a paper grocery bag
caught on a twig, where he just had another occasion;
the substance remains caught up in life.
It doesn't carry over into song.
What there is besides life
is ignorance battling ignorance,
one profoundly doubtful,
the other so stupidly sure.
There is no contest at all,
no lines on passionate intensity.
They meet only in passing,
if that even.
The only bogie is failure,
frustration of getting it all
down. A sea of attempts,
and so few ships amid all
the unauthorized swimmers.
And those that can't,
sitting in houses in waking dreams
too quick to lay;
lives too living to hold any formula.
Milk, bread, a candle for emergencies or odor.
As humdrum as it comes to be,
success is the only defense against evil.
A wash cloth here, an answer there.
Will we still impregnate our skies with heavens
and sing so loutishly in the rain
and advance on foot through rush hour traffic?
To the beach where the empty sand resembles an island.
Will we launch our voice from shore to shore?
Will Michelangelo's Adam point toward nothing,
and nothing tempt us not to try anything at all?