Sunday, October 12, 2014

Incurable Romantic Thinking Out of the Box

I know deep down
in my bones the moon really isn’t 
the moon and the earth isn’t the earth either 
and not only that but everything else 
in and under the heavens 
must be more than what it seems— 
even the air caressing my body 
smells mysteriously of moldy green cheese. 


  1. Some things only the bones know. They know what they know before anybody else knows it. And they're not about to stop knowing, thank you very much. They know that everything around them is rushing madly to turn into moldy green cheese; to them, that's a given; the bones are wise enough not to expect anything different. To the bones, moreover, "seems" is a category without content; everything simply is, or is not; a poem of the bones should not seem or mean but simply and maybe even literally (soon enough) BE moldy green cheese; not that any of this matters very much to the bones, in any case; why would they concern themselves with such pitiful ephemerality; they're counting on being around well beyond the term allowed the rest of us.

    That indeed may well be the Achilles heel in their bony supposition.

  2. No bones to pick here Tom but on the other hand, when one gets down to the marrow, there’s bones and then there’s the real McCoy. —


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