tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229254.post8711050820542652908..comments2023-10-01T11:09:42.394-04:00Comments on Blog with a View: Fiends without a Facecruelanimalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08045809979308725755noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229254.post-87353736274986629402007-09-01T23:34:00.000-04:002007-09-01T23:34:00.000-04:00The shell above the spunPebbles into rowsDunes ben...The shell above the spun<BR/>Pebbles into rows<BR/>Dunes beneath a Turin sun<BR/>Arose a rose<BR/><BR/>The spun above the warm<BR/>Crystal snows<BR/>Aligned Druid runes to charm<BR/>And woes froze<BR/><BR/>Warmth above the wells<BR/>Dispelled the spells<BR/>Clay cauls recalled how dying tales<BR/>Sail into shells<BR/><BR/>[Disposable Poem September 1, 2007]<BR/>Dr. Mike, dancing on the lid of "Fiends Without a Face"Dr. Mikehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17477774398775735186noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229254.post-30697466778691436422007-08-27T15:51:00.000-04:002007-08-27T15:51:00.000-04:00Thanks for sharing this very powerful, very moving...Thanks for sharing this very powerful, very moving poem.cruelanimalhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08045809979308725755noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12229254.post-62631549904639353722007-08-27T10:59:00.000-04:002007-08-27T10:59:00.000-04:00Sums There was first the talking about it being ov...Sums<BR/> <BR/>There was first the talking about it being over. The thinking, the joking,<BR/>savoring each line -- that was playful, because it still had the force of<BR/>youth behind it. All of the endings were secret boasts, full of dark irony,<BR/>enhanced by the sleek novelty of being as close to perfect as the body would<BR/>ever come, enjoying the shock of how sloppy and messy it was, the actuality<BR/>of contact, tactile and frantic to hide even when fully exposed, fleshy and<BR/>fabulous. Then there was demonstrating maturity in the face of it being<BR/>over, all grown up, adult, Not much point there, given the evidence. X-Rays<BR/>hung like Rorschach tests out to dry, whitened with streaks of black<BR/>lightning, as if laundry could be disabused of consciousness, its blood<BR/>stains groaning under a task-master of identity, somebody else's, whom<BR/>delusion had once held to be identical to one's own, but now otherness had<BR/>set in, and with that, sheet rock separation. Then came the realization that<BR/>it had to be over. The numbers all added up, you just had to do the math. To<BR/>have come so far was itself astounding, all the while knowing how soon it<BR/>would end, weighed down by the death of freedom of choice, the knowledge now<BR/>that multiple possibilities were closed down, there was no more becoming,<BR/>only being, for as long as that might last. The metaphysics of sloughing off<BR/>had come up against the reality of intractability. Metamorphosis was a<BR/>fairy-tale, the fancy of a sick mind seeking to deny that it was over. Doing<BR/>the sums, how much had been lost, how little achieved, next to nothing in<BR/>fact, and still, still, that despicable still, the spool of striving even<BR/>when it could only be over, and whatever else might be said or done, made or<BR/>unmade, none of it mattered, any more, because now it was clear, the word<BR/>had no traction, what had been flung into the net hung in a void, voided and<BR/>null, it was all over.<BR/> <BR/>[Disposable Prose Poem August 23, 2007]<BR/>Dr.MikeDr. Mikehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17477774398775735186noreply@blogger.com