Dust

Dust falls onto more dust.
The rampant sound of electric buzzes.
Sameness begets the tired faces of old wrinkles;
The creases wet from where watery balm
tries to remove the wounded flakes of dead skin.
Another crisis moves into place.
The waste that was once called excess
ceases to be wasteful.
In its place there is a notion that more faces will connect to each other.
Somewhere more data is collected.
A solar flare eats the young fusion it has spawned,
And darkness ceases to be dark.
Accept that!
And flail restlessly as a new medium nestles like a worm in the earth;
Cut in half–it is a new birth,
And two beings
With only one eye sees
Dust fall onto more dust
As iron ages rust over.
Moreover, the red rover
You sent out fails to find out
What life is.
And creases filled with tears on faces
Still have much to look at;
Only they are not wet.
They instead reveal the plasmatic glow
Of dusty screens, buzzing white as snow.


Random Acts of Senseless Me

I was going to start a new blog, but fuck it. I’m passed any attempt to refigure my life in such a way to deflect criticism. I am, as Ralph Ellison wrote in Invisible Man, what I yam. I have decided that every sentence in this post will begin with the personal pronoun I. I have told students not begin sentences with I. I have been told by teachers not to begin sentences with I. I and I means you and me. I and I don’t have to be what you and me tell us we have to be. I’m facile in my use of language. I’m masterful in the deflections I place upon myself to hide something. I don’t even know what that is anymore. I am saying this, though: there is very little that is going on any more that is of any genuine concern. I and I are killing people, feeding people, beating people, uplifting people. I do not mean to be relativistic. I do mean that thinking that one can exert control is truly facile. I claim to want to write with more dexterity. I write about anything I love, or anything I hate. I don’t really hate anything. I don’t know if that is right. I want to know what love is. I want you to show me. I know that hate hangs around me like a grey cloud in the Northern hemisphere in February. I don’t want to begin any more sentences with the pronoun I. I know that no one is reading this. I know that I thought this was prose, but it’s really poem. I’m out.