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tautological

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grandiloquent
Member
since 07-08-99
Posts 109
Midwest America


0 posted 09-03-99 03:15 PM       View Profile for grandiloquent   Email grandiloquent   Edit/Delete Message      Find Poems   Click to Submit your Poem to Passions   Click to visit grandiloquent's Home Page   View IP for grandiloquent

The day dank,
my eyes tired and swollen
watching rain bubbles on the hood
of a blue mercury cougar
my head full and dazed w/ phrases slicing
like words stamped on silk
the mind billowing out formless
outside the stiff ink
or a vacuum in fog
where dryness shapes letters,
sharpness for light to send a sword of clarity through.
And how many matched thoughts
have fed the same similes?
Where is the pair, quadruplet; how am I the
first to say this of this?
The millenniums collected thousands
Like dust becoming dirt becoming
stone, soil, layers, the walls of canyons;
Cogitation sticking in the brainwork
like dimensions folding over themselves --
invisible newsprint of the taste of coffee and styrofoam cups,
a third Easter with chafing lace and purple ribbons, the color of
mushrooms,
the Latin word for greed --
blizzards clinging to faces,
sticking in the whites of eyes, catching wrinkles,
clawing out decades and stomach acids. More massive
than the landfills, than the factories turning out bottles, bags, and
boxes. One life blurs out it's dreams, reflexes, and essays in such
tremendous surplus;
so how, in this infinite space -- with our storms of
Monkey hands & heads
And our galactic neighbor with their perfect shaved tentacles
and saucer ships How could I have one rudimentary thought
That has not been pressed into air inchoate, massless, and stuffed
with substance for generations and generations of stars? We are
all repetitions of circumstance, breathing, and itching Slobbering,
bleeding, breeding, painting, contemplating. And all ways of
saying, singing, and sighing are no more original than the bits of plastic
bound millions and millions around soda pop, fuzz busters,
hard drives and nail polish. No more astounding
than the crumpled oddments of skin tweezed between fingers in a closed
palm.
Or the hair tucked behind these small ears (causing them to tickle)
That somehow have & will hear
This (blankly) again and again and again . . .

*sigh* Just splendid to be back. When will the old forums be available again?

------------------
"I hate quotations, tell me what you know."
R.W. Emerson
© Copyright 1999 Megan - All Rights Reserved
 
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