Monday, December 31, 2012

RING TOMB (feeling awed and dumb by the travesty and majesty, all tragestic)



a solid gold faux amoeba earring cellphone fitness center
for AI ringtone ghosts jangles lightly alike to its twin
but they both have different clientele, one noises, the other
jazz, so that the head in between makes both a smirk,
and a grimace, a smeared mask, but there is no reason to doubt
that the body from which they dangle is a sound itself,
and the world a rustic earcanal, and no quaint swab can ever
fully remove its production of corrosion, for eros in coercion,
as if the heart bore the sun's absolute to enact a brave immersion,
and the waxing and the waning of moons are but forms of clacking
and naying, and the whole skreaking ball is a mess, and its formless
surface is indeed a form, but one which cannot be depicted, as its
infinity of parts is too vast, and too fleetly changeable, though
one surmises it must all fit, if any page were sufficiently large,
and its characters sufficiently small, and the unique path
of every raindrop could be represented by a single unique glyph,
a barcode, perhaps rendered as a noise, and put into the composition
in a way that its signature could remain, and inform the later structures
of their collective identity, for what a geometry to behold, an 
abstract diagram of the life, or history of water, one whose
every citizen had a name, and an address.