SLIVER
poem is a piece
of the heart, a sliver,
a part
poem is a shadow
of a shadow
of shadow itself
needle
in a darkling haystack
no way
to locate
the gist
of its spark
divine or
decisively physical
thing that
refracts, tries
its best to reflect
in the grace
of mosaic
sealed in sharp
mirror shards
poem is.
Tell all that is
out what
you can
of the in
this thing I am we you are
public private the terrain
of all
hope and despair
creature of light (said
to be) much
submerged
in own light
IN THE LIGHT OF DAY
so you
like genocide
best
keep it
to yourself
privately
you can fill me
in on
why you
like it
what’s so
good about it
which if all the great
historical genocides
is your
favourite
did the most
for you
all things considered
when all this
has blown
over
in the light of day
BY INCLINATION
how many
angels can
sit on
the point
of a needle?
how many demons
can turn
on a
dime?
to which super
ability
do
you incline?
HEART
at your heart
you are paper
by which we
mean
worst kind of paper
by which we mean
paper as fictional relic
of its digital self
at it’s heart
you thought solid
core like
the Earth’s perhaps even
rare heavy metals
but
there is nothing there
but vacuum but void
but
infinite implosion
so sorry to disappoint
but at core, in your
heart
you are
nothingness itself
not, to be sure, a silent
or quietly withdrawn nothingness
but one strident and violent:
essence
of bombast itself
stripped of logic and reason
immune to
fact, innoculated
against theory
will be
prove with a logic no
less than
catastrophic
to bring an end to
near a
planetful of us
so much at stake in every
denial of distress
SUFFER NOT
suffer not
the children
to come
unto me
whole
and alive
or in
bags of pieces
like Lego, Meccano
or doctor-doctor sets
THERE
look to the desert
space there
for all your allegories
of good
and evil
secret wisdom
of the sand
every grain
a universe in itself
worth contemplating
when the rains come
if they ever come
such suddenness
as the world transforms
ForGIVE
foregive me
for nor laughing
or
if I did laugh,
the wrong
kind of laughter
when you talk
of murder, slaughter,
being
LIVEstreamed
the irony,
as it
should be
just too
much for me
CATHOLIC
something
catholic in each of us
we’re all trying
to become saints
supersaints
at something
get our statues
and relics
into thd hall of fame
that the text of our lives
be housed, remembered
stored
somewhere
not buried
beneath the concrete
of a vast library floor
FOSSIL
call me a fossil
but my eyes
are fixed like Medusa’s om
the clock that be
telling me
I got ninety
seconds to midnight
got me wondering
when midnight chimes
what in
this fairy tale
gets deconstructed, what
gets utterly transformed
and me
having to make my
own way, own
sorry way
all the way back home
forsaking the regal palace
as it warps and
shape-shifts and dissolves
as the book instructs
on practically every page
of its
dense, comple text
trapped between
such
fiery covers
(colour
in this instance
saying it all)
FILES
wrote this poem
for you
because
you think
like a sponge
think like
a machine
will hold it
in your heart
of hearts
stacked and
Dewey-systemed
amongst
all your
digital loves
digital files
poems 2 die for