It’s like someone is playing a drum, A very loud one; when they hit something It’s gone. I’m supposed to have pity on the man Who runs the coal plant? I Never asked anyone to take pity on me. This is not a boast, Not a litany of boasts, but something More like my abstract history, The fourteen angles of my cube, Flashed in the light of one gleam, 2D, Gleam on the face of one surface, Glass one a single miniscule Jagged fragment, glass, A broken bottle in the Too-illuminating morning sun— A century too late, right on time. Those realities which are most loathed By a man of science turn out To be the sturdiest pillars of the civilized Who give birth to the great-grandfathers Of ingrate physicists, Barbaric physicists. There is no lack Of vision in my Overlooking their flaws Because poems grow In the warm light of love. Poems improve Through their mentors As I too could flail my arms, Dual-wielding scimitars, And call that a Beating of Wings Upward, to the stars. The lines are rays. I pay in praise. Each star has rays. They make a maze. I love my poems Like a greedy man Loves his money, Like a father loves His son, The way a man of science Takes “The Wonderful World of Technology” As a sort of brute proof Of the truth of his Way, His fortunate lawyer-son. I too have my brute proofs, Both of them proving naught But the Taoist’s Nothing
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"redrumline" jutties tub-"rum-pa-pyium-pum" az "rhod-essian" e-nil murders "rumspringa" %^り
That's not a drum, it's a gun. But regardless, I'm glad to see you post another poem... I was a bit worried by your absence. I've not been using substack very long, but noticed your silence. I'm glad your back and ok. (Sorry - unsought concern of a stranger! I'll stop now.)