Thursday, October 18, 2007

The way a multitude of personae sit in us, some gathered with the cherub hands of 4-yr-old fancy, and we direct ourselves to these portraits, in-and-out of awareness for our outward metamorphosis. In this sense, personae has the elements of directing prayer, of affixing gods within an interior dialogue. With our conduct we make invisible sacrifices to these types—to certain intrinsic qualities—otherwise lost in rational stutters.

p.s. John Rawls should eat poo.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

As the lindens greened

Destiny's muses reigned.
What variable to weight?
Each beautiful, intrinsic
a spire or note from the underground
glistens in the same caveat of Mind

A moment's caress can never be withdrawn
never linear
unfolding--dreadfully aware of itself--
bold, implausabile

Love, if you are an "if," a ghost,
then my empire seems intact

Monday, October 08, 2007

Saturday, September 29, 2007

I think historians should become more like novelists, erecting the sovereignty of event, amidst a contextual watercolor…The Uncanny should not be made to sit in the corner of explanation’s reign.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Our hands rehearse salvation
A sign language
We merely measure
Playing with hair’s aroma
Pleading with the stocks and bonds of disquiet
Greeting an infinite with rumors
Directed by architects and rulers

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Virtue Ethics

Identity is not consistency, but commandment saturated in an elixir that echoes through the self
Producing the effect of individual volition

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Preface to Courage

Remember when the shadows on the grass spoke
A listless whispering to the other shapes
an innocent game, passing triangles, squares and star shapes
through holes fit only for triangles, squares and star shapes.

For the chubby hands of cherubs,
pretty soon it became natural to believe in polymers
all science was self-evident, peek-a-boo

but when a knee scrapes
we want the gentle hands of sentiment
immune to the rehearsals

the horizon appears a mighty ocean of flesh
spying is an incision
its museums quiet death
knowing as the poets do not,
that we cannot make ourselves white enough
for the white walls of eternity.