There is nothing of interest
in the insolent grammar

drawing diction where the tongue
ceases to articulate

the distress and detriment.
The preterit shall become

modal in form. Pretending
this sentiment founded on

the absence of sensation.
The sensational painter

painting the present moment,
the stopped instance eternal.

The poet, exterior
to everything standing by,

beside the moment. And space,
working the frame just after,

elsewhere in another time.
Over and again I will

have told this tired story,
frustrated and turbulent.

I will have fortified fate
with each stolen stroke until,

the placid pigments have all
faded, or have found their way

into some ethereal place.
I will have scored the same scene,

and lived concurrently twin
lives of parallel sadness.

The cause effect of cycles,
the forgotten first flutter.

I will have worn the ribbons
down on this typewriter, frayed

by the repetitive strikes.
This one tethered verse at last

let go, like a new bird drunk
on its first flight of fancy.

The spurned syntax, the enslaved
appositives reclaiming

its meaning, the same lament
playing out so many tongues

all ending in such reserve
between two parenthesis.

Indexed and made archival
the ringing of each line’s end,

unaccomplished narrative
truant in immature forms

never to be exposed and
no audience to behold.

This triumphant nothingness.
And so what of it? I had

a dream and it went like this:
Period, period. Ellipse…


–from Exoration