new writing exercise; rough draft poem
It feels like Florida, this April evening, everything sticky as if I'd got some, but didn't, everything murky in its architecture, the night the diary of wet sentences, & here I am sentenced to the writing of mad men, all worn out with who they are, all worried about the merest carrings-on, but caring not, they are but boy scouts who tied their hearts in knots,
& yet, there is a calm about things, a series of whodunits in the midst of knowing that everything, in & of itself, is correct,
there is a nuance of bleakness, but no one despairs, everyone has an equal say in every matter that concerns the body as a whole, & none of which is done in a haphazard way, everything logical though life telescopes into unimportance,
women sag in this weather, despite trying to reckon with the wretched bitch of time, of whose teats nourish all malfeasance,
& through telescopes men see what they desire in themselves: a bright light inside of them ( through an omen of lenses, one can see his heart ( close one eye & you are halfway to seeing, a real seeing, the singsong of the eye breaking a pane of glass & scattering its colors across the room & back, there are shards on the floor, & no one seems to mind, no one makes the least bit of effort to stoop over to pick them up, nor do I, since it seems unbecoming of me to do so ) )
& yet, there is a calm about things, a series of whodunits in the midst of knowing that everything, in & of itself, is correct,
there is a nuance of bleakness, but no one despairs, everyone has an equal say in every matter that concerns the body as a whole, & none of which is done in a haphazard way, everything logical though life telescopes into unimportance,
women sag in this weather, despite trying to reckon with the wretched bitch of time, of whose teats nourish all malfeasance,
& through telescopes men see what they desire in themselves: a bright light inside of them ( through an omen of lenses, one can see his heart ( close one eye & you are halfway to seeing, a real seeing, the singsong of the eye breaking a pane of glass & scattering its colors across the room & back, there are shards on the floor, & no one seems to mind, no one makes the least bit of effort to stoop over to pick them up, nor do I, since it seems unbecoming of me to do so ) )