Category: Text

NEXT GENERATION

was that photo
that was posted,
was it meant for me? an unconventional pose?
was that your motor vehicle
slightly ahead of mine? a crisscross of happenstance
which dictates direction. and i will be the recluse, a distance
of reluctance- images of new work presently
reveal the content of our periphery

there is no next generation,
standing amid hot tar and concrete-
supplicating their will, confiscating the perilous
borders of creation.
i can remember a time,
without introspection,
waiting until children
were asleep to access the information
that would allow a peek into the new world.

a succession of unforseen events
coincides within this vortex, a correlation to
our own collective. on both sides, now.

they are creating a coalition
a singing chorus of scintillation
“this is exactly how it was!” I would shout
over the voluminous sound.
seas
will
rise
and the cacophony of totality can
reclaim the night, if only for that one, brief, moment.
it was simply a repetition of the cycle. the firehouse that is now
a residence. the vacant lot that once housed
ideas without recalcitrant demands.
this user is private.
and the succession of continuity is delineated
along tribal lines, which never existed as a barrier
in the good old days.

no one knows what became of the money raised
from the benefit
no one thought
about the import of the imprint.
we have come to the endgame,
a recess beyond impact.
i threw the key to the armory
over the riverbank.

RICOCHET SILHOUETTE

the conscientious coptic
speaks in symbols hidden
within decades of deception,
and the conscription of common sense
reflects a ribbon threading
itself into the context of our continuity.

the belief in a specific orthodoxy
resonates within the fuel of fissures, patience
as permanence, a ricochet silhouette.
our enterprise has morphed into a myopic
cohesion, the elegance of opportunity

a period of waiting for the sea
charged the casual observation, which concludes a forged chapter
within the point of completion, a moment which
required a simple, returned phone call.
the chaplain who confirmed for one and all
may not claim a conclusion on his own terms.
and yet this conveyance of civility would mark the compulsion
of every conflict that began to separate us
from the possible.

we have experienced the peripheral inception
the responsibility of a reciprocal evolution
encompassing an exact calculation.
each moment which parses a perpetual conversion,
becomes a perplexing situation –
a conscious decision- to contemplate
the correction of an inherent influence.

there are exactly 17 paces between the two points
of recollection and it’s final cancellation,
a follicle of temporal permanence reveals the reaches of grace,
a gradual acceptance of consequence.
each pillar that once was meant
to carry the weight of a voluntary subscription,
surreptitiously crafting an extreme position
a most trepidatious transition

a precious antiquity provides the primary motivation
it’s defiance the overriding trait which reveals
a constant barrage, the tire squelch, the sequence
of events beyond our control, individual lyricism
being sacrificed for the whole.

a mirrored dichotomy perplexes the state
of our affairs. are the accomplishments their own courant?
it’s insouciant contraband, it’s gregarious panache
only interrupt the perilous balance

the bridge goes up
the bridge goes down,
our commencement of acceptance
belies the cardinal conventions
of all our belated berths,
within cascades casually reminding the
congregation of it’s exemplary restraint

if every intention was a precise
calibration
we’d find our own collection
concise upon reflection

there is an ice sheet
coating the backyard gardens
empirically

each cascade partakes
of it’s particular veil
a constant puzzle

a collapse of the
system, resignation of
complete absolutes

convenience escapes
it’s occupied true binds. the
allowance of hope

the casual vice
of acquiescence compels
conscious compliance

TELETHON DAY

 

when I was ten years old

i had the opportunity to be on TV.

a speciality- my fifteen minutes of fame.

even as I had no idea who andy warhol was,

 

my appearance was paramount. I chose an un- folded

flannel shirt and my aerosmith belt buckle- to be seen

as if I belonged in the frame,

and not just another image for the television’s buzz.

 

his acceptance was astonishing. he would be told

there was only research and no cure. this path

would be the risk of treatment- the same

moment countless others faced had became ours.

 

while painting the house during the summer before,

he said he  would not be sold

on the science of folklore.

the telethon is being broadcast on the radio today-

they are raising money