Jules? Where Do Subatomic Particles Go When They Wink Out of Existence?
sitting falling to nothing where when is
perhaps
Atticed
raging against the rising of the sun
their calls echo
house to house
staccato signals thrum
on a frequency
heard only by the mad
Word Play
moribund
misfits
mash
midmorning
markets
***********
whimsical
women
weep
wantonly
without
wailing
***********
diesel
eases
easels
detailing
dovetailing
devils
Undoing
come
linger with me a while
the boys have come to visit
and the dogs have drunk deep of the well
there is time enough for this
time enough for you
and me
let us not decide
let us not understand the workings of the universe
let us spend the day of a day
drinking deep of the well
with the dogs
and the boys
and the sun
Stolen Lines
this palimpsest
thick with other writings
a bodily memory
the flimsy shifting tissue of remembering and imagining
I will write myself elsewhere
A Week on Phayam
a baby eagle’s first flight
(this disavowal of desire)
the liquid of my shit
(or never a rather than)
that opium flash
(perhaps)
this brooding on misplaced love
Untitled (A Work in Progress)
enshored
she dreams riddles
skyward
moon murmurs
that ruffle the sea’s
calm
Death on the River Ou
what matter of being is this
that you should grab
green handfuls of
life pouring out while we
sun shone and ecstatic
should remain
limbed to this earth
joyous at the day to come?
We are all Troy Davis
Today I awoke, tired and alone and far from home. News of a man like so many other men before him and so many many more to come, set to die. In a black room in a grey box in a red state in a blue country. Singing the blues, I feel the blues. Not the I ain’t got no money ain’t got no woman double blues but the gut wrenching soul destroying Oh Lord Why Me blues that smashes to pieces that glue that holds you together and you fall to the ground.
We weep. We watch him die, covertly, overtly, from the sides or in the centre, and we weep. I think of all those subject to the arbitrary whims of the powerful. We say ‘I am Troy Davis’, thinking it is in solidarity only. But we know, deep down, the reality. Any day, any time, turned into a target. More likely for some, stamped by race in a country that pretends race is irrelevant. But we all live in a world of differential power, of fear mongers, of the scared and the silent. Can’t hear, can’t see, can’t feel. Turning off, we are all condemned.
