ACTION YES Online Quarterly

Such viciousness does not go un-rewarded for long.

History, playing backgammon, pauses to recommend a song.

But never to request one. That would be redundant. Irreverent,

Everything suddenly wises up, zones out. Down the drain goes a secret:

The universe, or a piece of fried egg. Nights here are as dry as elbows and poker-cards.

Words said like shock after carwrecks. The wainscot of my collarbone sags.

No beach beckons. No turnpike. No oracle. No procedures. No gnosticism.

A comet is a campfire glimpsed interdimensionally. Always such faith.

Take comfort in these ides under stratospherical shrapnel, take to marching.

Cliff citadel off the edge we go.

The sister has sewn Occam’s Razor into the sleeve of Pascal’s bathrobe
and tied it shut with a Gordian Knot. That’s it. That’s that.

Shall I surrender to the never-ending abyss of coruscating floor-tiles?

Not to mention the googol of cracks in the chiaroscuro.

Crepuscular. There, I said it. Once again language is jealous. Of

Man equals Time. Woman equals Space. Vernal Equinox. Lunar Eclipse.

What does an hourglass in a sandstorm know?

A nexus of form is the first easy answer. A pearl, an abhorrent grain

and its trek through the ages. Everything is as inconclusive as a circle is.

We were left to devices; we devised mutant scythes to swath with. Metaphors.

Rusting bayonets, decapitated figurines, charcoaled telegrams, rusty sistrums.

There never were garden-times. We always wrote good myths about eating bad fruit.

We have zest, oeuvre. A taste for figs and crab-apples. Flora and nautilus.

There was a photo of you standing in the center of the cromlechs.
You looked so young and vibrant. The curator was caught fondling and fumbling,

sleeping with your image. Security found this morning that all of the exhibits

and paintings had been arranged. You’ve been sleepwalking through the museum again

yet, no one will admit to these crimes