Deus Ex

“Truth is stranger than poetry.” –Orrin Quinn

Truth is stranger than poetry
and life less tangible than dreams.
The moment woven
of theoretical strings
looses to unraveled
which each remembers
a different way.

The present
is tread threadbare
by anxious pacing
over purpose and design.

A child dies
with no poetry,
the famine scars
of distant lands
disquiet suburban
niceties. The same
bad players
hector using the same
bad lines, doing
the same bad deeds

and the fucks us machina
which rumbles overhead
eating lives
and burping disaster
would be disowned
by any good writer
as bad art,
a cheap contrivance
of improbabilities
shoved into the story arc
of opening, climax
and resolution.

A poem holds its own.
Though born of mist
it hardens to
a certain phrasing.
An atmosphere,
a breath of meaning
coalesces around
the cold core of simple words.

No matter how abstract,
a poem is the child
of one mortal mind,
a child who always
measures the same,
though our conversation
with her may range
over new ground,
carry greater depth.

She is a child
who outlives us,
who is always

Not sure if this is more a rant or a poem.  I do see beautiful things in life too, but this is how the poem bent.


16 thoughts on “Deus Ex

  1. I like how you went with the words…the bent in the phrases, the thoughts.
    There’s always time for a “beauty” flow of words.

    Best wishes for peace and happiness in 2012.

    Siggi in Downeast Maine

  2. damn strong piece of poetry…The present
    is tread threadbare
    by anxious pacing
    over purpose and design..first i found truth their and then you voice kicked it up a notch…great stuff…

  3. This is no rant, my friend. You gave birth to this beautiful child. And you cosset it with depth and meaning. One of the best tonight, in my opinion.

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