This discourse rattling about my broken head
bruises brittle bones and
plays my busy mind with ideas still dead
but borne with the stale breath of
Pegasus imprinted upon the malformed words.
Fanciful flights of neglected faeries
lift my mind to more delectable tastes -
Why must I wither in this hollowed state?
The death of a bird means so much.
The death of a little hoppy bird, so much
beloved with its red and green and blue
singing to clouds the pure love of pure art.
The muses were killed long ago, along with
God and the Divine. Divinity living within us
is a divinity so ubiquitous as to be
full of bloody darts and borked ideas,
ejaculated for the zeitgeist-infused sense
of our Holy-blackened-Ghost-unhaunted
world - drowned by the scientific voices of
philosophy-decrying scientismic philosophers.
Knowledge is limited by our estranged experience -
effects yield limits to conjured colored paintings
from perceived causes, but our causes are not
limited by our still-born perception.
Hume's Epicurus may not appreciate the full
effect of inferred causes, but our divinity
stares out of hollow eyes, with torpid
smoke rings circumambulating her plastic
face and concrete hair. Each tap of her chipped
fingernails on the false marble is a quiet
beat of defeat, unresisted and uninterested.
A soul means more than the death of a bird,
even a painted bird with iridescent wings.
A soul means more than the modern defecations
of the university trained mind, so certain of
its uncertainties and its known unknowableness.
The soul has survived the pontific perturbations
of its putative patriarchal pornographic assaults.
The soul means more than the life of intravenous
bourbon, imputed to our empty souls like the
revived wings of a broken dove, entertaining
the crowds while trapped in its mellifluous
I live inside an uninvited text of mal-extant
sufferers. I part from the world of dragons
and werewolves only for the sake of my child's
sanity. My children are so unforgiving when
they say a brightly forlorn Hey after dancing
in silence with Monkey Joe. They bounce their
buttoned butt on the cush floor, trying to ignore
the meritorious laughter of their hyena friend
as this laughing bore circles in his frayed
pajamas, afraid of the flat smiles of the group.
Sometimes I walk about the foggy town, wistful
that this fog was the 20th Century smoke of
ignorant cigarettes, the smoke of a young Eliot
or flouting Joyce: the broken sounds of a street
piano, garrulous in its off center singings.
I smile at the purple-haired girl sitting vacant
at the piano. I smile with her silver tooth
and her gold eyes: unstealable with their