I never had an eye for structure.
Rap rhythm, the cadences of Yeats,
crabby Gothic symmetries of sonnets
... to me it's all just texture.
I grow concretions,
Mud-glue pearls whether friend or faux.
Declare completion,
When no new nacre nags "Me too!"
My life's in the word or line,
Nestled in the fine details:
Raindrop-lenses holographing whales.
No girderbones, no plan. No man.
We build the fractal forms we know.
But who then are "we"?
A fractured multiple, most of my
Therapist all say.
Chaos Congress! Once upon,
I dreamt I'm in that hall:
A spheric cathedral, dodecahedral.
Dissenting Representatives all
Hang like honey ants,
Shout from the facets,
Protecting their fat-ass
Factional assets.
|
|
O-mouths blare,
A sound-surround,
As in the best of theaters:
Madness Multiplex!
But the Speaker's flown.
Vacant the holy podium--
consensus-point empty.
O Capitol,
O hollow skull...
Eye have no single I to see.
Just hollow crystaleyes of
Some terrible humming bee.
Still surprised my art grows
Only fractal structure?
To me, and me,
and me and me and me,
Human esthetic unity
Is just mad Dr. Sanity's
Illegible signature.
Your, your, your, your
Linear signature.
Your single signature.
|