05-30-2022, 09:05 AM
Nothing Makes Sense and Always Will
True,
this stick of dynamite,
and no but, no
time for that;
no excuses, explanations,
from the one who holds the truth
like an inoperable cancer.
Fixed idea, like a tumor, at
the front of the brain.
An antrum in mind.
Does anyone hold the door for reality?
Take off their coat for cold facts?
If belief is consensual, truth is not.
Reality has designs
on us.
A plague is a kiss not a necklace.
One leg is longer than the other.
Balancing is dizzying. Harmony is a thing
of beauty, a particular manner.
The little dead chimney sweep
is a joy forever, in the hands
of the aesthetic Master.
The crown of Beauty.
A belief may not be consensual
and love not a wanted gift.
A foot in a rabbit-hole, tear in the eye of a tornado.
Ripped from the east like a rational vacuousness,
mandala of one color.
Trying to watch a French movie from the Sixties.
Onan and his sisters.
Death is the only god not made by man,
suicide's a ladder not a tree.
If winter were the only season,
spring would be when dvarapalas cry,
gargoyles' noses run freely.
A deer in a park is chosen.
The young dancer is
as optimistic as her age.
An Age of Singing.
A dawn as large
as the most natural fruit on the tree.
A delight
only nuanced by words.
A taboo made singular by its banality.
Wisdom is like the live bird nailed above the door,
like the real flowers placed before the gravestone.
A foggy pattern, ambiently lit.
Tone is the superior in the hierarchy.
Roman candle in the bright day of rhetoric.
True,
this stick of dynamite,
and no but, no
time for that;
no excuses, explanations,
from the one who holds the truth
like an inoperable cancer.
Fixed idea, like a tumor, at
the front of the brain.
An antrum in mind.
Does anyone hold the door for reality?
Take off their coat for cold facts?
If belief is consensual, truth is not.
Reality has designs
on us.
A plague is a kiss not a necklace.
One leg is longer than the other.
Balancing is dizzying. Harmony is a thing
of beauty, a particular manner.
The little dead chimney sweep
is a joy forever, in the hands
of the aesthetic Master.
The crown of Beauty.
A belief may not be consensual
and love not a wanted gift.
A foot in a rabbit-hole, tear in the eye of a tornado.
Ripped from the east like a rational vacuousness,
mandala of one color.
Trying to watch a French movie from the Sixties.
Onan and his sisters.
Death is the only god not made by man,
suicide's a ladder not a tree.
If winter were the only season,
spring would be when dvarapalas cry,
gargoyles' noses run freely.
A deer in a park is chosen.
The young dancer is
as optimistic as her age.
An Age of Singing.
A dawn as large
as the most natural fruit on the tree.
A delight
only nuanced by words.
A taboo made singular by its banality.
Wisdom is like the live bird nailed above the door,
like the real flowers placed before the gravestone.
A foggy pattern, ambiently lit.
Tone is the superior in the hierarchy.
Roman candle in the bright day of rhetoric.
