Aporetica

What happens when the dream is over And What Now Of Dreaming And what now of dreaming? We’ve failed the planet has published our failures. Our crimes are perpetual methane and sweltering, arrogant and endless— poor fucks we are, breathing mindlessly as the marsh grass floods, and here comes the supermoon again, like it’s so special. Article continues after advertisement Weak and disordered become the governments, disquiet rules us now. Onward, I thought, and so we were obscured. The snow goes to the gallows of a warm grass and what survives? Seasons grow immodest, the bullet sun does parch  and drive us migratory in search of new and fertile fields. Article continues after advertisement The long drought makes blaze the plankton makes smoke the oceans  and insincere the governments— a demise indelicate. We’re in a deep jelly now no cause for applause  but try a little clemency my body is warm today, and yours, we have this small span of time and in

The Course of a Particular Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind, Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less. It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow. The leaves cry . . . One holds off and merely hears the cry. It is a busy cry, concerning someone else. And though one says that one is part of everything, There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved; And being part is an exertion that declines: One feels the life of that which gives life as it is. The leaves cry. It is not a cry of divine attention, Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry. It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves, In the absence of fantasia, without meaning more Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all. – Wallace Stevens *** Steven Wallace said... “The poem means what the poem says, but what

Poem The mouth  the eyes two  my finger tips place inside the space the architecture of sound I'm listening to Zelenka this Pascha  sounding my affect I'm telling my friend it's passion but it's really the sound of breaking in  two  Points in a wave  an arrangement of sorts the water of sound finds the hairline crack the lowest point the raja and the octave the one and the all. FT-Lynch, Easter 2019 *** The following is a poem from  Be With , winner of the 2019 Pulitzer Prize.  The Sounding What closes and then luminous? What opens and then dark? And into what do you stumble but this violet extinction? With froth on your lips. 8:16 a.m.  The morning’s sleepy face rolls its million eyes. Migrating flocks of your likesame species incandesce into transparency. A birdwatcher lifts her binoculars. The con- tinuous with or without your words situates you here (here (here)) even while y