Two poems

Prelude


Her eyes become round
with a spiritual and false mascara
that my mind places on them like the thoughts of the mind
that give the impression of space.

How many miles I would have traveled
To see these things that were always within me
That my visual sense superimposes upon her face.

--

Photograph Collection

Italicized amber eyes, blessed approximations of circles,
Iris prisons of radiance, playful spheres of influence.
Animated with permanence, crystalline, coy, cartoonishly round,
Your eyes are gracious and resonant and soft.

Your wonderful face that is a highway advertisement of kindness
and a stock exchange reel describing beauty.

I’d rather look at your face than clusters of acacias,
jackaranadas, ash trees, chestnut trees,
Sugarberries or waterapples.

And I’d rather look at your eyes than vasefulls of amaryllises,
daffodils, roses, violets, daisies,
birds of paradise, larkspur or tulips.

The roundness of you could be the roundness of all things.

--

Fled is a song that once was sung,
Before the timing of some infinitely vanishing set
On which a wry grace note is hung upon.

--

A lip lapses and pals spill autumn qua mid autumn.
gargantuanly engaged ethnic studies department, and some considerations.

--

When an oaf took aft,
When tort and affidavit fizzed
Like odes and commodity wisely adamixtured,
Then a rose stratified and stultified arises morosely.
Just saying: flung with an ionian is an onion.

--

color-yellowed, savory-diaphanous, savory-sheer,
Round-as-loud, blurred-with-a-blare grasp and a
rasp and an asp as a rounded

--

Floribund, rubicund amps and some amplitudes grasps and rasps
At blusters with high small suit who bunts out small smells at
November surrounding souls and sonorous boolean operators

--

A Turing machine collates left then left again then right then left
Registering effortlessly and shifting towards redness
With heavenly cubed and accelerated expansion.

--

The overtone series undulates as to ululate . . .
and continues during dweeby duration, with tension . . .

--
Archipelagos and archipelagos and archipelagos,
Plentiful twinkles of cobalt featurelessness and azure featurelessness and emerald featurelessness . . .
a ferry passes alongside the Golden Gate bridge . . .

--

It all diminishes into comprehensive nothingness . . .
becoming even more of a nothingness than the nothingness it was . . .

--

The highest end is not satisfaction but desire,
not the acquisition of love but the passionate pursuit of it,
not the arc but the integral showing how the arc changes,
Like a thing that’s autumn-haunted and ever-rising.

Could I prove the perfection is ever-rising,
and that there is always some better sentiment out of reach,
Like Euclid's higher prime or the superset past the other sets?

Even if over the years for this evidence I tried,
I would, just to be safe, commit to believe that I had already
found this thing in you, in case it turned out to be otherwise . . .

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Doubts About Logical Implication and Cause

Step-by-Step Instructions for Increasing Intelligence

The Ability of Computers to Compute Mathematical Proposition