solipsism in time of plague
i dream of
to boethius’s wheel
inside my ear
maggots to feast
on a molded mind
hamlet with his rapier
hears me howling
in the night,
but he informs me
with his smug, dour face
that infirmaries do not exist yet
at this point where we stand
on history’s periphery.
are heaping carcasses
onto wagons, and we
cannot even recall
whether or not
our author wrote us
into being with any sense
the cage at the edge of the cliff is not a component of the mountain, but rather composed of something else entirely. the creature that lives inside is striped and nameless. he needs no owner. he castigates himself. at times, the unforgiving glacial winds blow through the bars, and the beast, in the heat of his fury, is unmoved.
your spacious skies
swarming with irate egrets
bowl of broken nights
rendered visible–grief of
day in shadow’s clutches
a boy on bended knees crouching in sand
stoops to raise his monument above
the desolate promontory—proud, elated, and
unabashed he bears witness to the toil for love,
his task to end desire’s too ravenous fire
which haunts him with frigid spectral kisses
a note from heaven’s highest chamber, lyre
with bent strings, torn from eurydice’s fingers
last lingering trace of her beloved lost in
the light of the living. wasted sojourns,
all our immutable errands left undone.
what vanity to shape ephemeral edifices
not to gift one’s likeness to the undying,
but to escape illusory feelings through trying.
the wind wrestles with a woman’s dress on a winter evening
in a time of succulent wildness, a revolutionary spring.
the baker has no eggs. the young calves are whittled down
to their bare white bones. people in the plaza inhabit hoary minds
stuck in distant winters. the queen has lost her head. do we dare to stare?
weavers walk around. we fear even to tremble. all of our fingers are covered with thimbles.
image: Horace Vernet
winter’s younger sister spring
idle among water lilies fancying
some fretless life– gales
billowing over frosted blossoms
another life trapped in stone
note from a kitchen in a remote corner of the martian colony
three flies are feasting on an over-ripened orange. white mold disseminating outward from its navel, a stark contrast to the bananas, which are bursting fluorescent yellow. the phrase in art is called “still life”, nothing happens, but it is still life, and thus capable of the subtle beauty of being. we’re all existing in a state of decay, tired feet shuffling to the grave. time and nature do that to us all, but one cannot help but wonder about the idea of redemption. sometimes if you listen closely you can hear a redbird singing a ditty so riveting you forget how to distinguish dawn from nightfall.
so many moons ago you
too were singing green in seas
of moonlight dreaming
the fruit basket upon the countertop remains unmoved in the motionless moment. you are a secondary character in a russian novel. you suffer with such acute emotion, indelibly aware of your mispronounced patronym. shadow, one day you leaped away, and i was dismayed. but why should confusion assail me? i, myself, am but a misconception, a forgotten penny in zeus’s left pocket.
reminiscing about the state fair during springtime
auguries of inclement tidings seize the turkey-necked sky
a flock of fat wobbling farm chicks gobble “you’ll die! you’ll die!”
our disembodied psyches are atop a phantasmal ferris wheel whirling
above the blighted world where siblings and friends are granules swirling
in the ripples of a river bearing them to a country of concentric circles, stretching out forever, with no intimation of an end.
dear learned doctor stanislaw lovelaborer,
i write to you at 11:59. the moment is
inawspishus inauspicious, but that cannot be helped. for it is at this hour when orfeus orpheus in dark tyrian robes descended, violin in hand, into the secret chamber underneath the orchestra pit. strands of kelp around his ankle, he sought her with the sonic eyes of a dolphin. like the hero of our myth, i am in need of a panuhseeya panacea, an ingenious unction. i will spare you the details. please send me your lab notebooks filled with all of your axioms and formulas. i will find what i need for myself. do not worry. eye i am not a robber baron longing for a pile of gold; i don’t wish to enrich myself from the discoveries you have found pouring over petri dishes, scanning for unseemly varyashuns variations in the plate of colors and textures. i no know life is unkind, but i will reward you. send your scanned notebooks to my email email@example.com. you will not lament your decision, i assure you. i give you not merely my word, but the hundreds i have pilfered from the dictionary to send to you, you pacifically specifically.
Eggsellency Excellency the Sultan of Australia