All Wet

I mistook earlier
what I said.
Signs and symbols
often move
like fish on a hook.
Thoughts as heavy
as lead
in the loving hands
of gravity.

Yesterday’s newspaper
wraps tonight’s
dinner. If
you get here
early enough
you get a big one.
Early men get
the worm
big enough for two
or three.

In the sea
everything is led
by invisible
currents
unfeelable
by the schools
of wet souls
passing through
reefs and caves
wondering
what invisible hands
pull the shadows
and the light
that defines them.

A solitary figure
made a shadow
by the falling sun
hangs its feet
off the dock.
It kicks its legs
up and down
never once
returning them
to the same ocean.
What lies beneath
it will never know,
but infinity lies
ahead, and is setting.

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Nervous Habit

I watched her hand scribble words
looming lazy loops
her working mind needs a working body.
The objects around the room:
a lamp, a bed, a map
all being put to paper as cursive
half-meaningful symbols.
Perhaps, she thought,
if these were intentioned then
some meaning might cling
like collecting dust.
She thought about moving them
but let them be
to light the room,
to hold her dreams,
to take her home.

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Our Myth Part I

The unfortunate truth for those who hide themselves behind ration relativism is that what they are really looking for is justification, for ethical orders, for a completely irrefutable fact amidst a sea of turmoil – they are looking for truth. Oh sure, like the sophist they can speak around this issue but they cannot hide forever. They use the metaphysical nature of words against it. They turn her and make her cut her own arm off. They say she is limited because she speaks above the reality of the senses and then timestamp her body with the word “philosophy”. The one-handed, ravaged, dirty language of man is no longer something within herself she is nothing higher than a whore being used by every self-defined genius who aims to be novel by undermining all previous assumptions. They push her around a circle of bloated, unshaven, brutal men each taking there turn at removing her garments; imagery, metaphor, meter, rhyme, symbolism, and finally the jewel of her navel: poetry. They condemn her by calling her a liar, and justifying every vicious act they perpetrate on her with envious and insidious logic. Her once mirror-like eyes are too dirty to reflect the ugly faces of the darkened madmen who now parade her naked body through the streets calling themselves by the names of forgotten deities.

A boy sees her from the windows of his family’s house. He blushes and weeps for shame. In the innocence of his childhood he still knows to avert his eyes. But does he know to fight back? He blindly screams out the window to the crowd but their chanting is too loud. They carry her past the boy who never sees her go and to the church where they force her to stare at her shadow.

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Scrawled on a Bathroom Wall

On the contrary, dear friend, with the assumptive brow
this is not merely the mouth of the sewer, not merely a road-side pit stop
it is the human experience. A metaphor which goes to show
the grotesqueness of an imagination not unlike the image itself
composed by an image within an image with a mind.

Sorry to interrupt you wasting your time, perhaps you can thank
Heideggar, or Husserl, or Hume for this break in reality.
I speak in nothing but lies, if lies are what you call things with
no reflection, no taste, no smell, and no size. Truth is for fire,
for electrons, and for monarch butterflies.

Did you ever stop to reflect on how words consume
your thoughts to excrete black lines. Like waste thrown
against a canvas of white. What purity isn’t worth such a delight?
Perhaps these lies are worth more than the purity of truth
A world opposed to the world we have imagined for ourselves.
Gods and bacteria…

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