[Just a little musing, my first lunch poem in a while. I dont have a title yet.] Deadline, how darkly opening the sky when the garbage trucks come, those deliveries of some given takenness, those negative numbers. Dozens of gallons of emptiness per week, perchance, whatever you wish to be unbrought. Whatever you can spare, minimalist, maximalist, tween gallery floor and hoarders hallway. Deadline, what a dark term for whatever can be borne in time. Does the line itself not live? Show me a line that ends if the definitions followed. Maybe youre right, it does more harm than help, putting things in bins, ominously temporary, or not ominous but anxious, or not anxious but excited for the change: gravity unto rumbling movement, all energies, all ways of being near and far, clustered, cloistered, close to closure and disclosure, hanging wide and narrow, in the crevices of things, in the crevices that are things, the little unfoldings that await every atom, countless times.
Posted on: Fri, 23 May 2014 17:40:17 +0000
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