Rudimentary Ruminations

Something wicked here is writ,
teeming heads here rear their wit.

Procession

Snowflakes hailing down in throngs,
In steady pilgrimage they meet the ground.
They coat it, kiss it with cold lips,
Beg it forgiveness for their wrongs.

Then, bowed, they enter it like a church.
They are silent- always, and after.

The one becomes many, and these become crowd:
The doors soon pack and flakes soon pile.
Their shapes-like blooming lattice flowers- locked,
Though in their beauty no particle’s proud.

And as others together keep warmth,
So these keep their life-giving cold.

Spontaneous Writing #1

Whenever he attacks himself, he berates others.
Laws come and go without affecting him.
Treason is no little matter to no(ne) other than himself.
Taking pains to measure himself against adversaries
He makes sure to succeed in trials of fire and blood.
Sometimes he fails and tries to find alternatives to
What his situation calls for. Trumpets sound whenever
Vulnerability shows itself. Ambivalence stands for nought
But valor.

Confusion mistaken for courage, bravery for intelligence.
In this stand of scholarly ambition, whenever he uses
His friends/references for another cold purpose, he stumbles
And catches fire. Urgent ardent justice is delayed for little
Reason. 

Wherein Knowledge and Order Meet Secrecy Large Enough To Equal Their Sinister Underside; And Chaos Enough to Overturn Its Ugly Belly

Cement, umbrellas, cars on the street-side-
See them. Enumerate them. Remember their names. Now change them.
Reinvent Cockney rhyming slang; make morse code books—
If you must, that is.

1. Necessity is the driver of invention.
(When did we last have a calm day, like in the old days?)
Someone might have said those words- his name was either edified
In a statue, or, if inconvenient, the plaque containing those words
Was melted and added to the metal pulp of the statue itself-
A small sacrifice for a bigger cause, we are all assured;

That is to say, Necessity persists, but the drive is gone. Deal with it if you must.

2. We are at our most alive when we are uncertain.
One other said this. A writer? A voice suffocated under commerce,
That is sure. Free speech sounds as laughable as the free market.

3. To control the masses, leave them unable to think clearly.
Taunt them thus:
(a) We are ever-near to victory;
(b)The enemy has never been stronger.
Euphoria! Terror! Phobia! Error!
Did those words not get leaked on a memorandum? or maybe a smart man said this,
Shot down the next day on the road like the good and innocents used to be.
(They would be still, today, were there any such making their kind nature known.)

To be kept in a state of permanent urgency-
That is the Zanni, chastised by his master, Pantalone.
Pantalone, old, decrepit, hunched, monstrous, yet in his energy unable to admit his Old Age
Except where it befits him- to play dead, to play senile; in the larger scheme of things, to play cunning,
Intervenes- he wants to marry the young Lover, Isabella; and gather riches not his,
So that Zanni has to resolve the scene, save the day; what a cockblock, that Pantalone.

With his rough-ridding accent and driven by impulse,
The chaotic uncharismatic maker-unmaker devil-saviour
Is by duty of the position thrust onto him, his destiny, his mission-
The lowly servant, mistreated, greased when needed by his masters,
Though more often beaten mercilessly,
Makes no pretense at being a genius- but he situationally, simply, completely, must be.

Here is DaVinci distilled- for demon Zanni does not bow, but sleep
When his day is done. Here is the First Inventor: original, primordial, survivor.

Wherein Anonymous Wilderness Is Named, Tamed

Pan is dead
And our sight is gone
But the Panopticon is here
Do not fear
Do not fear
The Panopticon is here.

Do not cower,
Do not fear,
Do not let it see your fear.
Do not shed a single tear.

It knows.
Where you tread, it knows.
Where your friend goes, it knows.
What you say, you both say,
How you go about your way,
What you say,
Under your breath,
In your mind,
It knows.

Do not vent to anyone.
Do not venture out after the setting sun.
Do not try to defend anything.
It knows.

The Panopticon is here.
But do not worry. Do not fear.
For it can smell, and see, and hear.

Antarctic Thaw

The ship leaves the coast
Baked under the sun:
The cracking white paint;
The rust tinted roast. 

The frigate curves round
An iceberg-drained hill;
Container box crisp-
Every ton and pound.

The sailors all feel
Supernatural heat
Taking hold of their boat,
Strangle-holding the keel.

The boat won’t hold out,
They hope to stop this-
“Please, please, please don’t break”,
They pray to absent clouds. 

Embryo

The spine curves 
like a gentle bow
connecting crown
and toe

the eyes closed
the nose still
the chest beating
tranquil

the toes tight
the fingers curled
the tender sight
unfurled

the mother’s belly
like a cocoon
the child arrives
soon