The Death of Provenance

I have set a tryst with my lovers:
History and Etymology
Borne from the Ancient of olden days
And now I am set to meet them both.

And I have in hand the depraved blade
That shall end all to desolation
Soon bestriked the joints of connotation
Ensues the birth of obfuscation

None! Is the essence of existence
The meanings are dead; I have killed them all
Have ran from the myth of provenance
Thinking, to destroy shall to create anew

And now I, a conscious nothingness
Sitting, waiting for another providence
Alas, yearning for timely purpose
¡La última causa o muerte!

Afternoon of March

Today is a malaise from hopes and dreams
I come and write a series of Ennui:
Freud, chemistry, and Headrush

Maman opened the gates to Outworld
Soundwaves flowing outward after my ears
Bass and treble lose its wry intension

Dry leaves fall; dry floors do not
I am bereft; I am wet
I am cold; I am warm
I am sick; I am not

Cry, Maman, weep the tree of gold
Poppy will give us bread otherwise
I will desist the waves from resounding…

till the room be as quiet as Solitude.

To Whom We Write

To whom we write:

to the clarion whispers left unsaid
to the forsaken souls left unawares
to the lives left deadened and exploited
to every child whom we would never see

to let them feel the world’s embrace
the wonders of this intelligent design
that they must not be left

forsaken
unsaid
deadened
and exploited

that tomorrow shall yield another day
which that day marks the Emancipation
of everyone—of to whom we write.

 

Constantly Adrift

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To and fro I stumble and go astray
Westward, leeward and wayward
Waiting for an opportune chance
Only to find myself adrift amid.

Pushed and pulled by outward forces,
Yet the inward preempts stature:
An entropy within an entropy
Adrift by the sea, adrift by the soul

Whence the waves come is a query
Whence the discordant din a mystery
The origin of tumult and disquietude
Is it within or without?

Reclusio Perpetua

I have stopped to think the envies of life
As a destitute I have seen the worsts of all:
Poverty, moral depravity, darkness beyond measure
Though I would regard much about it no more
Had once desired idle idylls which bore no value:

Enclose the eyes that sees nothing but vanity
Cover the ears that hears none but blarings
Desist against the fragrance of decadence
Conceal the tongue that is the means to debauchery
Find the self a recluse deprived of outward stimulus

And thus to feel, at last, the essence of existence:
The meaning of life—the greatest mystery!
That is but the inward feeling of solitude and certitude:
“I am for nothing but the world and the world is but myself!”

The New Jaguar

Aye sir, a New Jaguar has come upon us
Apt to leap and strike, ready to devour us
Filled with enigma, otherwise nondescript;
What in the world is a Jaguar?

T’was a false positive; it was no Jaguar
Truth is, I might know but of Jaguars
A word it is: a savage within the books
Defined by old symbols and semantics:

Covered with black blotches and sallow furs
Sharp teeth, claws, talons and loins
Cursed with epicene sexuality;
Eccentric, stochastic personality
Disciplined yet credulous;
Educated yet vacuous;
With savagery as primacy
And solicitude as mediocrity

But that creature which roamed the street
(Filled with enigma, otherwise nondescript)
Was nothing I have seen—unprecedented!

The Porcupine

porcupines-discovery-trail-jan-11-2007

Behold, the two days of life:
Azura, the days of Winter
Brita, the days of Summer

On these azure days,
When one feels cold
One feels blue and alone;
One longs for one’s company

On these bright days,
When one feels warm
One feels alive and great;
One needs each other no more

Till one realizes that one suffers
On snugging old cold Solitude
One feels feeble and destitute

Till one realizes that one suffers
On huddling his closest friend
One feels pierced and betrayed

Either way, who is to blame?
Lo, open your eyes and see!
Sharp quills are hurting me.