Poetry has become a longing by which I had to seek asylum with. The poems reveal some answers which the readers, struck with mixed emotions, would either be left guessing or find what a crack in the head to deal with:
It’s mind placing.
A glimpse of what is
of the end, or
the end of the beginning,
abstract and sometimes
the beautiful display
of what’s evolved from out of such
a lack of view
for the final picture.
Needle pricks stung
the sight—no point sending one last hint
at obvious. This principle
can long endure is the name
of the game
simply because that’s not
the way things
have to always look.
The paradox is one
that is likely to become
A hand brushing across
the climate of opinions;
the lure to keep focused.
Why do you think
it brought you all the way
The glanced up still hurtling—
the same self-conscious stare
of thumping against the screen.
Same principle, different device.
The paradox helps shape the possibility
if you can’t find someone, like
a guest who always settles in the same chair
in the living room, to become the accepted form
within the overall rule. Maybe
you missed that part, maybe not.
To make the most of this argument
can only generate so much query at once,
something you don’t want to happen, happened.
And what about your newest answer
darting across a stream of crosschecks
came back with the same equation
any way: if x is the Alpha
and y, the Omega—even when reversed—
would surely expose what little ignorance left, out of you,
amounting to no more than a square
of mangled darkness in your own room.