fixing her eyes into the void.
She was eating –
though without need –
a bowl of noodles.
When she sucked a last
noodle in, another
universe flicked off the end.
And she sat quite perplexed
at what to do with the mess.
There were so many
little nebulous drops
sparkling in the depths
she decided not to bother
with a cleanup
If every generation spoke
before my time, Is it not my
right to also speak? The usual
channels are gummed up and rusted.
Unfortunate it is that rights
are a fragile construct. Performed
badly, they disappear as steel
wire in a shower of hotness
and so many people have thought
steamed from their mind these days I fear
everything. Why am I writing?
I’m afraid of reading the news
and what else am I supposed to
do? not ask the late world to split,
distinguish itself from itself?
let it be, and in respect to
it allow its continuance?
I hear my friend’s solumn prayer –
Gods not dead. He’s alive, and plays
for Barcelona. I just can’t
express my self any longer.
There’s so much going on in me,
but it turns out none of it helps.
as the whole world shivers and bends
The only audience you have
to impress is yourself. only
the only audience you have
is yourself. only, not the truth
(since the true disappeared in
smoke, and fire, and limb) as god
forsaken, crawled up the hill-path
and faces dissolved around it
pliant in itself but shaming
others through inadequacy,
the old past-time of public shame
which gods performed to each other
and now humans performed to god
who performed supposedly for
or against itself. “only god
only knows what is happening
to us.” said one roman soldier
and the other twirled his skirt up
and around the index finger.
before responding. “have you read
and reread Ovid, Catullus?”
then “no” then… “then I don’t know what
you’re worried for.” then they stand there
like the great sun god apollo