It is an offence against life to remain consistent | a joke in poor taste not | to grow embedded | with contradiction || The glittering circuits of syllogisms | break or complete themselves | twinkling on and off | In the forest beyond the city limits of SENTENCE | a MINDLESS darkness grows as night falls, and a MINDLESS light swells | as day arrives || The delicate necklaces of syllogisms | their clasps | locked or open | rest at the bottom of the pool || Carp with sumptuous metallic silver scales | are bifurcated through | with signs and the signs | split and shimmer | the lights on these scales | sparkling and rifting | fray and shatter | are dubbed and re-dubbed | echo and splinter | decay and erode | breed and vanish and | recur in | reconfigured iterations, and the carp | glides on through the water with its | spiritual signature | written into our eyes and | clinging, like tiny lemon-yellow snails | on the undersides of the lush green | leaves | of our dreams || Long, long ago, SENTENCE called the faithful to its centre, and set | a pattern for the stars and | laws for the atoms to obey, but now | I live in a gun-runners’ suburb | among rusting cars and fires | and here, magic is practised, the genies of assignation and ascription | work their hesitant and ephemeral miracles, spells | all fall under for | who can escape the confines of a moment, and who | can endure a place without names | a world | without pieces? | And thus, we follow the dancing line, the | invisible voice as it | apportions a defile | through which we go | perhaps half conscious of the subtle and manifold and perpetual | incantations of the angels of order who | neutrally and without motive or end | act us into being and allow us to become en-mazed | by reactions we believe are | actions | drifting through the city | an hypnotic state | unresolved | everything floating | beautiful and indefinite | our whole lives performed upon a stage | of half sleep | every clear and perfect detail | the workmanship | of ancient spirits, and the streets | the forests, the seas, the heavens, all of it | the sum of an intricate and inexplicable arrangement of | slanted illusions || In a labyrinth so translucent we do not even perceive its | existence | we move and believe in freedom or | mostly just | don’t care

The desert begins its long rise, its return | Having vanquished it for so long into an oasis | the antennae of the city, its lovers and artists, loners and murderers | tremble and sense | a new thirst beginning to invade their mouths and hearts | In half sleep, in twilight | in cool places at the edge of time | in moments of | epiphany or stupor | the shadows of the wings of the god of silence | pass over them, and they begin to yearn | to get out of here as soon as they | possibly | can

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)
(this poem, June 2012)

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