Tuesday, February 10, 2015



I. A tribute to e. e. cummings and Nikki Giovanni

outrage is just a stone,
 it does not melt away,
  but it is ground away in the machine,
   and becomes a thousand useless little irritations.

yet  ... o (no),
 u left your ! and made even the most . a ?
and those () dear friend.  They belong to JONES
  softer more uncertain than the [],


and our bodies for what they are worth,
 were never meant to be accounted,
   and when multiplied, squared, or exponentialed,
    these conceits form no transcendentals.

I yes I yes I

II. Reflection and an important allusion if you want to understand this poem.

why do the heathen rage?
it is because I know a boy can fly.
that's why the heathens rage.

C. Gulliver on the shore.

Once he lay asleep,
"Them" up to him softly creep,
Lest he turn and "them" there  bury.
A thousand million eyes are wary,
Of any gesture he should make,
To give portent that he awakes.
And with their little ropes like thread,
Try to fix his arms and legs,
But foolish, nameless, hapless elves,
Their magic works but on themselves,
and When his shoulder starts to rise,
The terror fills their bright wide eyes.

4. I reflect on what I am doing

but why talk so bitterly,
and in couplets give any accidental praise,
to consider their vane thoughts,
in terms like human innocence?
no, they gave up their humanity,
the moment they ate again of the tree,
and no third coming's coming,
to replace the second fall.

All miracles are virtues in an evil age;
and what can be more natural,
then to deny the supernatural,
and see nothing outside the ego cage?

None. The real problem is the answer came before the question

Mirthless laughter heals no wound,
And mockery mocks down friend and foe,
"But this lies all within the will of God,"
Yet, I swear this is not the only language I know.

To see, to hear, to taste, to feel,
We turn towards the cooler air,
Perhaps we shall find him there,
And his shadow passing over, heal.

For to Job was given a riddle, and to Jonah a great sign,
To Elijah a widow and her child, and to Peter two coins.

I myself am rooted down by a thousand cares,
but may heaven forgive my pride,
not, of myself; No, I would not compare,
or dare think myself in that way justified,

The poet is infinitely greater than his poem.
No machine exceeds its inventor,
But there can be no art without an artist,
and praising a creation I praise the creator.

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