Friday, May 22, 2020


His mind glistened
As he walked out from the library
To pure light.

He'd been reading on the mysterious
Processes of art, the theories
Shelved in hermetic embarrassment
For eternity.

Their authors hated all that crap,
The trappings of tone,
Technique, form, meaning,
And more how it failed to light
With any justice
On receivers.

The art itself, forever free of this,
Lay here too, untouched
As if to say "Be wary,
Having captured me
You must carry
All I know"

Onto shelves not yet visible
To share space with gracious company
Of loquacious quotetasters
For a party between the leaves
Full of envy and idolatry,
Insatiable desires to speak
As if they'd be interred otherwise
In another person's words.

It's not like Friday afternoons out here,
Where stemware and ashtrays
Are not preserved,
But there, like here, the voices speak
To be heard
Though always, always turned

Electricity balances instantly,
It reaches
But in density, skyscraper girders
Tangle endlessly in the sky.