Monday, May 16, 2011


In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away-----
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

---------Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark, Fit the Eighth.

Silence inspires song uxuriously.

Our eyes, buttonholes of light.

The Moon,
pregnant and virginal,
spills silver
over the city.

Eyes assonant
with its descent,

Awash and aglow,
we stroll past
idlers, gawkers
and feuilleton hawkers.

The Moon,
hoary and venerable,
ebbs gray
into day.

vestments of a ministry
choreographed infinitesimally
to errant tongue and truant curl

of empty heads,
and arsenals
of debt

rise from neon banality

by pale hands
in brushfire
pocked lands.

Two children run in terror as air shakes their faces' upon dark waters.

A dozen pink scarves disguised as clouds ignored by serious people at dusk.

Listen as mother sings a lullaby to her babe of Angels swallowing doves in clouds.

Hunger shivers from a thousand dirty cupboards.
The cross drags a straight line over every heart.

There is no button to fasten this point.
Theology, rarefied dramaturgy

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