How far have we gone, now?

If only it were as simple as the shadows in bones.
Stillness in marrow, warranting release,
and the falling of eyelids,
now ten thousand or so notions removed.

Before sight, was the candor of non.
Non-everything, yet condensed as sulfites,
grouped like multicolored posterboard housing.

All under the sun
Equal to the distance from Big Shore--
plane of no substance.

Equal to the distance we must swim back.

A lottery of karma,
borne against its will.

Yet its ceasing--
like the momentary retreating tide--
the hardest task,
surpasses will.

That hillside--
one could take a charge to it,
and hardly change it,
as if man has no legs to climb that soft soil.

There are craters aplenty
which already glaze the spectators eye.
A few modified-- we have the tools--
made askew in a particular vantage
would not warrant panic
in neighboring villages.

Alas, there is no cable long enough,
to harbor us from that fulmination.
We must either submit ourselves to the blast,
or find some other occupation.

I can get enough as the Spectator...
I have had enough.

(i.e., In the back of the room, Lucy flips the breaker.
The crowd gasps as the cinema is brought to life. Again
the film plays with the same flaws in the reel, the sound
skips. It is a ball rolling, underwater or perhaps it is the
cloudy nature of the film. Music plays but it does not
correspond with the visual, as if trying to “take off,” or
“separate.” The projector operator is smoking, which
has an ethereal affect on the hall. The crowd would
not mind watching a third time, but the fuses keep blowing,
and it gets smokier until grandpa coughs. The hypnosis
obviously had little effect, his back, his lungs.)

Regarder un photo du chatte:





Fantastique, no?

A line of patients wait outside my door,
They have been there for weeks now, taking turns
Peering in through the frosted glass, my name
Etched on the outward facing side. I have
No secretary, no second hands to field
Their fussy, impatient queries. One man
Loves his father, one only loves the Bard.
A woman has trouble keeping composure,
Another sings out of rhythm and tune.
All need amending before they can be
Acquianted with the world; they are such shy,
Demanding seedlings I am in care of.
The wife will soon request me home for supper,
I must leave all this for another day.
Though late at night my thoughts will be with them,
Resiving has become my twilight dream.