great energy forms collapsable doors for us to fall into on our way somewhere else:
an old-fashioned movie house
a ring of wolves.

in as many hours as there are grubs in the garden,
i will die, lie dying now, pick things up -
�why don�t you put them down?�
then i always drop them and leave them
in whatever fate they find
lying on the floor.

this yard is the only yard without fences in the entire neighborhood
it will be defenseless against invaders.
we will move somewhere else.

oh. coarsing lines that prove meaningless,
humiliating a mark of failed creation,
a bunch of slippery stillbirths
piling up in a bucket.

as if this were an inderfinite minute completely plain and coarse
a perfect tribute to a certain fall
from a certain kind of hope
from a certain certainty that gives way to luxury and opiates which are no longer in fashion
old-fashioned, out of place,
angry jabs at a senseless sensibility.

inevitable lameness, unacknowledged numbness,
stasis, static, dumbness given cold turns no vine can creep

should this descent quicken anymore what is now inevitable
will become something else,

a twenty-minute-revelation

of our power for self-annihilation
coupled with perfect automation
and disinterested warfare of nanosites and parasites
climbing up on each others� backs until the tower tumbles, most times
there will be more loss on one side
than the other -

if this were instead a kind of repetition,
the grade would become more shallow to allow a surviving morsel
for another civilization of morsels
uncovering all the different ways to cover. confronting history as trajectory
confusing potential for fate while choking fate�s erstwhile companion
rewriting scripture

resenting what is allowed but never brave
never brave leaving it out in the cold
denying everything its flourishing
never allowing existence its right
in one infintismal confrontation of mutual destruction,
it is a constant evening of scores tallying of casualties recounting of repressions
a reaffirmation of total inability

remarkable all the manifestations of the dragon
which shows itself to be a centipede with useless wings, a constant
shudder against the ground, mainly defeated, even in its layer,
only burden and dirt and decay it caters to no other thing
(birds ignore it, birds fly away.)
the other things crawl in different directions
it is so subtle there is no academy dedicated to it
windless death
any movement in vain
only confirms your existence
as a hollow to become filled in another�s vacancy,
alas.