PoetiX

Nocturnals

In the twilight
of poetics
stands a reason
to explain
why everyone's
been wrong
all this time,
now that it's
too late.

Poetry is dead.

Poetry is dead
because we let
it be corrupted,
just as
"video killed
the radion star"
in a time of
transition
no one quite
realized; and
the reason is
the same killer
waiting in the wings
of all pop
entertainment,
a vicious inclination
to subjugate the past
at the leisure
of the present
and thereby
ruin both.

Poetry is dead
because all it
remains to be
is nostalgia
and bad readings
that put people
to sleep.

I think I enjoy
being there
for its death,
where it has lost
all its power
and only the words
remain, soon to
become sounds
and then

nothing at all.

PoetiX

III: Master of Zen

The problem I've always had
with Buddhism
is that it becomes just
another career:
you work at keeping yourself
away from the world.

The more I've thought of it,
the more I've become convinced
that the best way to find peace
is to embrace a total sense
of responsibility,
in that you don't expect
anything from the world
that you're not willing
to give back. It's another
old formula, but one that
I'm not convinced anyone
has truly tried to understand,
or at least, every time
someone has tried to voice it,
they're end up completely
misunderstood, and the classic
example is Jesus, who got
a whole religion built around
him that ignored the best extent
of his teachings, his example,
where to be a leader you
must also be a servant.

It's hard to even talk about him
without having it construed
as a lesson in faith, but
there's nothing to believe
in if you actually understand him,
the lesson he taught in washing
his disciple's feet, even in
sacrificing himself, which
became the most famous thing
he ever did, probably the best reason
he was remembered well enough
for people to begin remembering him.

Anyway, the thing about life
is that it's a terrible thing
to get wrapped up in, but we
all are, and because of that,
we ought to realize that
the only sensible thing to
do about it is to remember
that, even as individuals,
we constantly owe everyone
around us the same courtesy
we expect. I know, I know,
old hat, but it's just not
understood.

PoetiX

II: Your Enemies Closer

It's always the enemy
you don't see
that will end up
biting you harder.

One of civilization's
great obsessions
is capturing the villain,
and it's a very noble
profession, but it's
still a game whose
rules are underestimated.
Most people focus on
the chips that will win
them some personal acclaim,
while others go after
points that aren't
going to win them points,
but the easiest to find
and the most difficult
to identify are
the niggling details
that make it all possible.

You can probably call it
sabotage, the art of working
against the other players,
the lack of unity in a sport
where everyone's doing
the same thing, and to get
ahead, sometimes you think
you playing against
everyone else, and must act
accordingly, to skim off the top
of others to add an extra inch,
a meaningless mile in a sport
of lightyears, because,
most times, no one will notice.

Most of what makes up a life
is nothing you will ever learn
from someone else, but rather
how you cheat when they're
not looking. This is clear
enough, but people actually
choose not to pay attention.
The devil is always in those details.

The trick to it, not in
the winning, because secretly,
there are no winners,
is to pay attention.
You're going to lose points,
but at least you will know
what's really going on.
In this way, you keep
your enemies closer,
because they ultimately
mean more.

PoetiX

I: God Was On the Move

The best way to describe it
was that there was a glitch
in the system.

Clearly the programming
was still operational
but things were amiss,
functions not responding
as they should, outcomes
reading as they weren't
expected to, all while
everything pretty much
remained the same,
the same basic belief
in place.

Garbled, would be a way
to put it, because that's
what it really amounted to,
a new tower from which
the sensitive equipment
had fallen, and only now
were the results beginning
to show. Perhaps, though,
it was all according to plan,
maybe that's the way it was
supposed to work; there were
no difficulties being
experienced now, just the
intended effects, as if
the best way to understand
was to not even try, because
it was really only hopeless
in the middle of all that hope.

What we never truly understood
was that God was on the move,
not a mere static being
to be everywhere but being
everywhere along the way,
not an architect or some
mystic oracle, but a wanderer
in search of what he already knew,
because that was the best way
to see it, to find some perspective,
which even the divine must need.

But what were we to know?

PoetiX

" the archaic
" the anarchist
" the all-consuming

Preludes

Poetry Month was supposed
to be this month, but
for a number of reasons,
I celebrated it
in March (for Putin).

If no other body of society
is allowed to schism,
then poets should be,
if for no other reason
than it is their birthright,
for theirs is the ability
to contradict, to rise above
mere democratics and say
what must be said, whether
they are in agreement
or not, because for the poet,
to be heard is not merely
to be agreed with, but
for the caged bird to sing,
for loose sounds to be captured,
for the North Star to point
southward, and for all
natural things to act unnaturally,
so that they may be understood.

I guess I don't always
understand this myself,
but I have taken a vow,
and so must proclaim it
anyway, just because I must.