Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Infinite Transgression

The mind's an infinite transgression --
commuting joy as easily
into depression as eruptive lusts.

While outwardly exhibiting a show
of comme il faut and should’s and must’s,
it secretly entrusts itself to nothing –

as the stuffing of the life it putatively
seeks to spice and mold disperses
in the breeze like droplets

in a bad cold’s sneeze. It conjures
easy rhymes like these to cover  
virulence – cheap handkerchiefs

all full of holes. It has no goals.
And yet the delicacy it can lend
a face transgresses into grace.


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