because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

Relativity

Academic vigours
lose their science
when it comes to art.
An array of space-point-time
lines foretelling
the devil’s future
in tingled palms,
they predict
useless fiscal gymnastics
in a landscape devoid
of tumbling mats. And
the earth? Upstream
folly commanding clocks
to run backward. We’re
left iceboxing in a desert
on the centennial eve of never-had-
existed. Avenue upon
avenue of comatose
dreamers, smiling at
the sun. I burn, therefore I am.

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30 responses

  1. so many great lines in here…here is where you grabbed me…

    folly commanding clocks
    to run backward. We’re
    left iceboxing in a desert

    and that centenial line next as well…very nice…

    August 16, 2011 at 3:54 pm

    • thanks, brian! always a pleasure… 🙂

      August 17, 2011 at 11:28 am

  2. Love the “folly commanding clocks” line, a really gripping piece straight through.

    August 16, 2011 at 4:17 pm

  3. Consider me one of the comatose ones! I guess most poets are, eh?

    Very interesting word and image journey here. I liked the unexpected twists a lot!

    August 16, 2011 at 4:51 pm

  4. I almost did not graduate college because of the useless gymnastics of algebra. NASA would not be hiring me under any circumstances anyway. Not only does science lose its academic vigor in art but also in theology. They are not in the same realm and are a true example of arguing apples vs oranges.

    August 16, 2011 at 5:25 pm

    • Carl, I believe there can be an art to science, but I agree that it doesn’t necessarily work well the other way ’round. And as for god, science + theology = metaphysics? ~:-/

      August 17, 2011 at 11:34 am

  5. useless fiscal gymnastics > lovin’ your wordsmithery as always, J. A stanza break? I could see it in tercets actually. Whatever, great piece

    August 16, 2011 at 5:28 pm

    • Love the idea of tercets, L. I can see it already– will definitely give it a whirl next round of edits. Thanks!

      August 17, 2011 at 11:26 am

  6. Love the finish! I burn therefore I am…ha! I could write a book on my thoughts on that single, finishing blow alone! Found this to be a fierce read, especially out loud, and really enjoyed the pace. The awesome image was a bonus!

    August 16, 2011 at 6:10 pm

    • Thanks! I can’t decide myself if I like the poem or the picture better…. 😉

      August 17, 2011 at 11:35 am

  7. expatinCAT

    Strong writing…angry…this hit the mainline. // Peter.

    August 16, 2011 at 6:14 pm

    • *bows slightly* thanks, Peter. a high compliment indeed. Always nice to hear your thoughts.

      August 17, 2011 at 11:30 am

      • expatinCAT

        Always a pleasure to read your writing. 🙂 // Peter.

        August 23, 2011 at 10:26 am

  8. “folly commanding clocks” such a great line, nice share.

    August 16, 2011 at 8:39 pm

  9. I am in mourning, each line stabs, excellent.

    August 16, 2011 at 9:53 pm

  10. I love how you let this image lead you into a place of poetry. It feels so familiar to me…I drive through the Mojave several times a year on I-395 and both the image and the poem gave me a sense of deja-vu. Or perhaps the Sonoran desert.

    August 17, 2011 at 1:34 pm

  11. wow – great write..We’re
    left iceboxing in a desert
    on the centennial eve of never-had-
    existed… dang and then the last line..powerful

    August 17, 2011 at 2:59 pm

  12. Did someone say ‘comatose dreamer’? Wll wlel.. here I am, smiling at the sun, burning! 🙂
    Loved this one… intelligent, witty and very very original!! 🙂
    xxx

    August 17, 2011 at 3:35 pm

  13. haha! i totally dig the end. the question of existence is handled delicately as well as casually in this piece, and something about that seems quite appropriate:)
    nice to meecha:)

    August 17, 2011 at 4:18 pm

    • likewise, ed 🙂

      August 18, 2011 at 10:16 am

  14. We’re
    left iceboxing in a desert
    on the centennial eve of never-had-
    existed.

    powerful truth!

    August 17, 2011 at 5:58 pm

  15. Vision Quest

    My desert
    Furnace of a yearning soul
    Where inclemency
    Pounds, burns and starves
    The clinging ego into submission
    There behind the waning
    And whimpering acolyte
    Are the first sounds of silence
    The sky escapes the largest canvas
    And starlight comes all the way
    From Andromeda

    My desert
    Where I am reborn
    Into visions of unlikely realities
    Evoked by the howl of coyotes
    Nurtured by mystical, swirling winds
    I walk here knowing
    That no one else exists
    Within a twenty mile radius
    I am finally alone
    Finally taking full responsibility
    For my life
    All the other voices I hear
    Are in my imagination
    A Conestoga
    Full of baggage
    And keepsakes
    Painful memories
    Which have come to the desert
    To play themselves out
    One last time
    I will leave them here
    Tossed over the edge
    Or burned in a campfire
    Or slid into a cold stream
    I will gladly give them up
    For Silence and Peace
    The sacred ore
    Of the inner Motherlode
    Where no canvas sacks are needed
    No strongbox
    This precious thing
    Is free for the taking
    Once you’ve died to the old ways

    My desert
    Where the edge
    Always threatens you
    The edge of thirst
    The edge of hunger
    The edge of loneliness
    But walking this edge
    Brings forth the warrior
    And the medicine man
    And the true artist
    They all commune with
    The colors, textures and expanse
    The clarity, the quiet and solitude
    The ancestors, spirits and whispers
    A hidden world
    But knowable
    An ancient world
    With the fragrance
    Of sage and dust
    Here lies the beauty of a hostile world
    The delicacy of wild flowers
    And the toughness of sojourners
    This is my world
    My desert

    August 17, 2011 at 6:53 pm

    • You grace me with your signature comment-poems, as ever, Tiger. Thank you for this “desert vision.” Namaste.

      August 18, 2011 at 10:15 am

    • I Don’t Have the Heart for Blah Blah

      We started with a celebration
      Of our poetic impulses
      We begged the Muse
      To grace us with insight
      And passion and realness
      I cannot shake off that world
      Like a dog just coming out
      Of a stream
      Let me remain soaked
      Saturated to the core
      Smelling of the earth
      Dazed and glazed eyes
      In reverie
      Wild with excitement
      And discovery
      And let me lift my voice
      To join the chorus of poets
      Living and dead
      Who have walked this earth
      In pain and rapture
      With wounded hearts
      And clear eyes
      Determined
      Against all odds
      To express
      What it means
      To be human

      August 18, 2011 at 12:10 pm

      • …what it means/ to be human. powerful encore, my friend.

        August 25, 2011 at 11:35 am

  16. The absurdities of civilization, and yet so many of us never learn to see deeper. Great imagery here.

    August 22, 2011 at 8:59 pm

  17. Beautifully written!

    August 22, 2011 at 11:01 pm

  18. So glad I clicked the “subscribe” button. I had a Daliesque moment when you spoke of the clock, picturing it melting… lovely work! Amy
    http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/box-room/

    August 25, 2011 at 7:56 pm

  19. It’s a catching up day and I see I’ve missed many of your poems! This one is “must read”, more than once! Loved the image too!

    September 13, 2011 at 7:32 am

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