Thursday, April 28, 2011

The Grammar of End Times

[ANOTHER SAD, CRAP DRAFT. It's very frustrating that I can't write about this without sounding like a catechism.]

Worlds are separate
suspended, discrete.
Take count, make them
account--they seldom
cohere, cannot agree.

One world expects children
making laughter, worries,
afternoon weed bouquets.
Love. Loveliness.
Sports car (import).
University tags. Online shopping.
Flowers, phone calls, food.
Need new wood floors.
Another bathroom.
Home sweet
home improvement.

In another world, a child (more ribs than years)
and a buzzard guards her, waits for her to die.
(What else to say--for this part,
lacking everything,
also lacks words.)

Sages, madmen who care,
decide that worlds do not share:
the same sentence--or any other space
the sages have died alone, and madmen
too, many by their own bourgie hands

And that young self who
starved, carved wrists--
she mutely floats in my veins--
rude. But just as any other chained
and stubborn corpse would.


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