To whom these
scattered particles of speech?
Though I,
perhaps, is one way
It has been done
since the early days,
The speaking
self is just one of the parts.
The envelope of
mystery that I address
In dialogue with
absences
To the blameless
night may never reach
Its destination. But I is undeterred.
Syphilitic schizophrenics
walking in the park
Stave off the
bad words emanating from
The
unintentional topiary shrubs.
The purpose of
these judgments will be
Revealed. Not to me.
Who the hell are you?
A turd dissolves
in the grass just as the self
Against the
bushes. To the far-flung deserts of the
soul,
To the
evaporated cities of the mind,
Jagged transition
declares the inexorable
Tipping of epochs,
like the temporal subduction
Under the house
where the wrapping paper
Of children
sloughs off year after year
Till the big one jolts everyone involved
To a new
consciousness—of life, yes,
Life conscious
of itself as for the first time
In the midst of
this long series of aftershocks.
The present is
maddening, in a way, despite
Its salutary
effects. Everything, all at once,
With you and
ignoring you, a glimpse
Into totality,
an infinitesimal part
Of the
perception of God, for a fraction
Of a part of a
second, must be indulged
As an intense pleasure,
half pain,
In roughly
regular intervals, like a season.
All things end
where they begin,
In the middle of
other things.
The backside of
the hour does not go down
So smooth. The hovering between chains of sense
Opens into long
vacancies, or vacations,
For the hard-working
angels of the tribe,
Whose ephemeral
half-lives, thoroughly known,
Have been going
on beautifully without you.
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