Along the line where the words follow
one by one each distanced and obscure
like items of trash along the highway
stuck in the weeds between the ditch
and the fence lift shifting cars passing
sailing into the wind of logic.
Or like grocery carts out of line
and place scattered about full
of claptrap and flapdoodle
for absurding the suburban
where the shopping rigs
get garaged for the night
like pigs asleep in makeshift
huts with conquistadors
while in the city in loose
deduce gathered around
poles where trees once lived
covered in plastic people
under a new moon of normal
dining al fresco in the fresh
air of an improvised jail
things will never be the same
the way things have always been.
The faster you go, the more time you waste.
The quicker to dicker, the sooner to yearn.
To talk is to argue.
To identify is to accuse.
Music is buried in the piano.
To hold a grudge is to jackhammer water.
If you’ve read one poem, you’ve read them all.
Art is not art.
We always have enough for now.
That two plus two equals four
used to be true, but no more,
not necessarily, and out the door
our core of being washed ashore.
Dostoevsky came close to avoid
the obvious and said to make five
you need at least four things,
the fifth the wit of leadership.
For the true leader takes 2 fish
and 2 loaves of bread and convinces
the constituency they’ve been fed
the truth, the whole truth, nothing but,
for what is right might be wrong,
we hear from the physicists,
who wander far afield from logic,
language, and Mother Earth.
So, if you happen to have two
apples and two hammers, you
are missing six of something.
You are a long ways from home.
“I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but, if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing, too.”“Notes from Underground,” Dostoevsky, 1864.