Tuesday, October 09, 2012


With decades behind, one still boorishly chases the dull candles
held by those somehow traipsing through the uncomplicated
life; one just an acknowledgment page away from calling it now
one page away from a done. Over it. So very over it

With a brisk rendering of complexity, shrill and shrugged
repeats of days and one is an unparented swiller and one’s tonic and
balm no longer enough. Soon there will be no verb. The countables
wreck their own units; static laughs; lit up and tweak-weary

Diplomacy taints the micropolitic. Countless hours, of course,
spark sluggish decades and one loses games one isn’t even aware of
There is this one thing that all things are made of, one says
and the dull-witted say yes, this. One does not, should not. Still rhetoric eases

The peculiar sting of fact-unchecked quirk factor hymnals and yet, one
chases slow moving candles and one fattens and withers in season –
slow metronome. A slow, stupid metronome. Then, at some point,
there is no real verb but an unrelenting need to call it and to call it
in time, listlessly, to call one’s own over it

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