The Bolts

The bolts have backed out of the engine mounts
lost along the road
so that now each time I shift
the torque bucks the engine forward.
The starter hangs out like a seppuku gut
gears touching enough to grind
which is why the car would not turn over
to get me out of this rut...

As an acquaintance once described smoking black tar, "I seem to go away for a while only to realize I am still sitting at the kitchen table".

Synecdoche

Slowly, we slip, spiraling into ourselves, holding onto irrelevant lives, merging into something other. But only for those caught ungrounded with existence bittering.

What narrative is wrappped around a bland life?

What is shut out?

Are we not just slowly building rooms of our consciousness, cardboard cut-outs which people chipboard sets, invisible cities closing up to build the world within?

A world constructed from within: not a world within a world, but a growing shell encompassing the warehouse that is encompassed by larger warehouses.

Repetitious repeating and other badly thought thoughts

Years built to extinguish overlap into oblivion.

I sit blank, reflecting the loss of all I imagined; life emptying out of an ossified childhood. 

"And how we repeat moments of our lives the same conversations!"

There are various flavors of silence, various stages of collapsing or expanding.

We all have our own suffering to deal with.

(and what right do each of us have to speak for the world?)

Re: Ezra Pound

Ezra lb., Catullan Cornelius, though not un-terse have taken up,
      Ye, roll'd up entire pasts of epic song and medieval parchment,
      Ignorantly xeroxed with low toner cartridges.

As a Delphian supplicant you scrawl on amphorae sherds:

      "Will it blend"?

And strap'ed with the Mycenaean Deth-mask,
      commenced feeding the greedy goblet
      while your veiled face cuts a deep hull of platitude,
      teeth gleam slaved oarsmen-like seething.

Whose funeral pyre dost thou decant this condensed libation?
A schizophrenic that instigates
      as audacious a palimpsest as Archimedes,
      though more thorough?

And not just any Tai Chi paranoid
      but one that shall weave conspiracies
      packed as smuggled Chinese in Evergreen shipping containers
      onto the back of business
            "No Postage Necessary If Sent in the U.S."
      mail with various colors of brilliant ink
      that verily decry the Morrisian Codex.

Fleet-footed, this Mercurial messenger drops each song off
      in his trench-cloaked informant's garbage can
      to be picked up by a shifty-eyed park janitor
      pushing a cart full of cleaning supplies
      whose beige jumpsuite is torn by the escaped
      Danielovitch: 'The Chin-o-clops'.

El lb., is this not like reading Das Undbild
      where the Loeb Library of stilted G.P. Goold revisions
      were used as crude ore,
      where the meaning comes from
      the placement of pattern lengths of taped portions,
      not the black and tan words meeting 1/2 way?

Or is it a stenograph from across the hall where multitudes ovate
      the finale of the William's Mix with 2 fingers of Gin?

      Scorn my stammerings!?

      You spudian Virgil with a fascist smock,
      Persona non grata on your Lavine shores
      for the sake of betting it all on Camicie Nere.
      But the roulette ball is always weighted red.

Though one ought with a befitting esteem ring the objection gavel towards the following:
            "I have Cyrus-like toppled your Croesian 'Monumental
            Mudbrick Structure' with this litany!",
      would bring my wax wings frighteningly close to
      The Heliocentric Worlds of Ra. (Vol. 1 & 2)