Friday, December 27, 2013

4869. WE MUST DETERMINE THE WINNER OF THIS CONFLICT OF TIME

WE MUST DETERMINE 
THE WINNER OF THIS 
CONFLICT OF TIME
(modern poetry)
Though there are none, there we make claim  -  
no matter and nonetheless. The small heart in the 
palm of a hand -  some tattooed distaff wandering  
-  lets us know the trebled meaning. Continents of 
blood and conflict make the season. A yellow box 
of corn meal still sits on the baker's table.
-
The abbot is singing his song : a slim sponge of
Gregorian chant in his robes and aces and beads. 
He's been to Vegas like he's been to Rome; in his
dreams, and his holy dreams alone. This secular world
is a new spear to his heart -  the one in his chest here
takes precedence. When his mother died, she was buried.
-
I have no verve for this whirling world  -  my amalgamation
polka has left the dribbling universe alone. Where I stand
up, the ceiling already is in place. I am boxed, in a cavern;
I am caught in a maelstrom of a time of my own.

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