The ghosts of the house have supplanted me.
I don’t want to dream anymore.
All plants have souls: Socrates.
He picked his own poison: hemlock.
The chalice clung frozen to his lies
but he was not fearful of fate he didn’t prescribe to hungry crowds.
Their ears rang bells echoing across the empty Acropolis twelve interminable days.
No resurrection then.
Who would coax them to the other side of mythology?
So tired and parched, you should lie down, face up, in the still-pristine snow and drink cerulean.
I didn’t mean to pretend to be incredulous, dubious, misguided, dangerous—make the locals stare.
My father visited from the dead last night—
bequeathed a golden-angel kite with one useless, folded wing
but she alighted from opalescent string far beyond the skies protracting.
Now I know things.
Now I am alive.
Socrates was a charmer, his legend, his myth, as with every soulful poet. Descartes, too, could not think beyond his own ego, his life-breath of fate. I love your poetry, always have. Always will. We are blessed that it is free (although I most gladly paid for Hourglass Studies, just so I could possess its slender spine, crease its delicate pages, ruminate).
Hi there! I enjoyed your book that you sent me, the wisdom there, the Wittgensteinian epigraphs. What an accomplishment. Thank you for reading my poetry, buying and honoring Hourglass Studies, and for being a loyal fan–much appreciated. I hope that life is being kind to you were you find yourself these days and that you’re writing up a storm!
I really enjoy this one, the flow, the lines, the imagery.
Thank you so much, Sir Alien Zhombie Poet, Thom with an “h.” BTW, Ghertrude Stein Sublime aka CHICKIE CHICKIE!! sends her highest literary regards. She’s frenetically composing the second (equally as experimental, of course) iteration of Tender Buttons. Her little pair of cat glasses have fallen, alas. I must fetch them from her dollhouse bed!