Why Did You Waste Your Time?

Created From Nothing, One Is Horrified In The Glass of A Compass, Exhausting Categories Of Change Or Inertia In A Whale’s Breath, Whose Fecund Utterance Wandered And Trailed, Speaking Of The Lunar Incubation And Reflexive Arc of Empirical Knowledge And Its Electric Signs--Of Which An Owl Without (Quotation Marks) Would Have Been Spitefully Perhapsed, In These New Depths Of Distractions. To The Roots Of Impenetrability, Ever Knowing Anything Of Inconceivable Scripts Of Sleeping And Waking Against The Calendar, Worms Walk Off, In Modern Light, On Those Grounds, In Freest Modus Operandi, And Swinging; Encounter These Bodies And Their Full Effects, All Their Wonders And Riots Of Living Phenomena Passing Afresh--A Call To Be Thinking.

Of A Meal : Through The Marketplace Massacres Of Capitalistic Flattened Time Perpetuated, I Saw (As One Who Looks Directly) It Burst, That Which Was Intolerable, In Its Nakedness, From A Cemetery Plot Of Raped Human Skin, As Deep As Sepulchres Trimmed With Armed Extinguishers, Who, At Risk From Banqueting, After The Starvation, Took All The More, Evening Over The Pavement--In Dante’s Time.

As Country X’s Growing Arrogance Became Manifestly Intransigent, Squads Of Soundless Lone Miners, Between Eras Of Opposing Continental Shores, Mastered Seismic Trawling Dilation; Losing Was A Forest That Spring (Of Blood Away), Wherewithall, A Language Digested--Making Coexistence Impossible. On The Earth Stood A Glass Coffer Inlaid With Sandstorm Membrane, Containing (Behind The Passions) A Rejection Letter From Was (Who Committed Suicides), Next To The Singer, Whose Exposed Throat Hovered In Paroxysm--Forming All Of The Unknown Derivatives Of :

Apotheosis! Apoplexy! Apogee!

--Outside The Library, Above An Open Book Of Chess, Archaeology, And Museums.

© Carol Maric
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