A Sentence From Tacitus
Peace is merely
An assumption of
Fortunes, states, and dearly
Bought ways to companionship or love.
Merely assumptive in, yes,
A pejorative sense.
The smoldering present tense
Is too elusive to bless.
The desolation left behind
Breeds grim anecdotes.
Tomorrow’s planned kind―
nesses, half and quarter notes
In a refined style
Of moral composition, claim
A silent pride, a discordant shame.
The assumed dead rest in a pile
After the decisive operations
Of animal dispassion.
Grounded, our elations
And attitudes turn ashen
This fire-scarred hour.
The night sky is torn by burning rods
Launched by lesser gods
Of merciless power.
-previously published at AGNI Online
The children of senators
Put on rags
To better their chances of copulatio
With the children of teachers.
The children of prisoners
Are clad in collections
Inspired by the nobility of horses
Running across compacted snow.
Snow on sand, a miscegenous vision.
Praise children and their stratagems!
Buy mallets for their idle hands,
And sea salt to dress their wounds.
Send a whistling wooden ball past their ears
Into the hammered silver sea.
(at the office)
Excellent machines process sufficient air.
A box of light, techno-spawn reconcilement
Of the codex (fr. Latin for box wood)
And the Israelite scroll, presents a quarto
Or folio of words to the desiccant eyes.
The tocking and ticking of small plastic parts
Iterate sound patterns like a ragged meter.
The only indicia of nature, cultivated
Or otherwise, is a swad of laburnum
Tucked in the buttonhole of a Huntsman suit
In array on a visiting executive.
This is the life-like setting for a livelihood.
“I’m working on Marc Jacobs
Circa two thousand and four:
Pudgy and asexual,
Big glasses, greasy, long hair,
A math professor sweater,
Baggy jeans and white sneakers.
If wearing some bad clothing
Can mean anything, this look
Means that not only am I
Too concerned with the fallen
World and the state of my soul
To care about fall fashion,
I can barely stand to look
At myself in the mirror.
I’m aiming for an aura
Of secular sainthood, fueled
By equal parts ascetic
Refusal, self-hate and pride.
Plus, sensitive boys like their
Girls to look like awkward boys.”
-all poems previously published at Octopus Magazine