solipsism in time of plague

Image result for plague

solipsism in time of plague

i dream of

redemption

 

while strapped

to boethius’s wheel

 

nightmares crawl

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.

 

the neighbors

are heaping carcasses

onto wagons, and we

 

cannot even recall

whether or not

our author wrote us

into being with any sense

 

of urgency.

 

Advertisements

untitled (4/10/18)

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.

sandcastle

Image result for sandcastle

sandcastle

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.

annus mirabilis

Horace Vernet-Barricade rue Soufflot.jpg

annus mirabilis

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

note from a kitchen in a remote corner of the martian colony

Image result for kitchen counter stock photo

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

Image result for ferris wheel stock photo

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.

 

 

11:59

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 richestofnigerianprinces@suckerslayer.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.

His Eggsellency  Excellency the Sultan of Australia