Detritus ~ Wednesday, June 25, 2025

Instrumental to faith is love and trust
      simply put, a lack of either is loss

nothing lost, nothing gained, or so they say
      obey the rules until business goes bust

living is expensive, why not believe
      observe the cultural barter of dross
visions of success hampered by decay
      eternal return of the same, to earn

imaginary wreaths is to retrieve
      notoriety as a kook, a mind

touched by desires and dreams, attached to fire
      haunted by attention, the need to bind
instruction to the sound of the lyre
      slip past celebrity, now, live and learn

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge ~ Friday, May 30, 2025

Professor Miłosz answered my question reserved with but one word, 'Daimonion' obligations to respond to students forgave him for reflux indigestion ever more witty than a Cheshire cat such a response like peeling an onion strange to hear what inspires a profound sense of history and philosophy, deep rivers flow to offer one time at bat Moments come and evaporate, to seize in my youth the mystery of being łodzianin , The Promised Land , a breeze of less than fresh air blows mortals fleeing socialism into the deepest sleep ziemia obiecana , what does this mean answers in his History unfold time nothing escapes Polish Literature save for the Catastrophe , the unseen wisdom, impossible to grasp, then guides experience through right and wrong, as crime removes the stain of corruption, unsure existentialists adopt Marxism despite the deep divide taking both sides music to post-Stalinist ears, the Thaw yet, thirty-five years later, with the Fall questions of ...
Read more

Know Your Rights: The Future Is Unwritten ~ Friday, June 6, 2025

That the future is happy by design how I wake up each day to language games as if the world were made up, narrative teaches us that language shapes to align this idea with objects of relation how to make sense of the absurd, these names each person identifies with to give foreignness, a sense of distance, not mine undermined by the truth, this blank notion trips me up, shallow graves, and a killer until they speak, what is hidden remains remains, lost to others, like a thriller each moment hangs in the balance, the chains invested equally for scales supine supine plates, on their backs, they rest and wait hold the weight of the world on my shoulders as titanic effort, necessary pertaining to murder to offer bait perhaps to a killer who will not speak yes, the truth is hidden, I push boulders but they fall by the wayside, how scary yes, the future is happy by design despite my efforts, I am up a creek exactly as they say, my paddle gone still, I float, as I am af...
Read more