Friday, December 30, 2011


Ideas crash, ad hoc,
out of exasperating vastness,
crass and shocked as sunlight,
cracked and cut and bleeding,

stained with black blood
from the mutha-flooding kiss
of the abyss which sucks back
at them till, at last, of course,

they can’t resist. But meantime
they consort in a cabal,
breeding secrecies and plotting
to corral impossibility into abject

submission. And for a moment
death plays dead: finality  
is in remission: hope amasses.  
The moment passes.


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