Exodus

2024602_2024602-R2-050-23A

A revised epic poem in three parts and an epilogue but not yet finished.

2024602_2024602-R2-050-23A

Suburbia: A Commentary

The sleepy little suburb
that I call home;
some eighteen miles from
the heart of America;
with ornately diseased elms
like the children cared
about the superficially decadent
and loosely rooted history.

The sleepy little suburb is
constantly settling the refuse
of the commuter rail;
in turn, always consuming
the eclectic and spontaneous
servers
—out as fast as welder
sparks smashing into ice.

Here the moon is the stained
ring left by a freezered mug,
stale on a dirty elm coffeetable.

Conscience houses on every
corner remind us that we
are all sinners and how the
blind children's postulate is
fickle and frail, teetering
between sleeping in on sundays
and sleeping in sunday school
classes.

The old money gorges in local
rarities and niceties in order
to rest rightly on top of new
money at the bottom of the
not-so-steep hill.

Since founded from some feral
savage encampment, the train
tracks ceaselessly pump the
hollow atrium's discharge into
the sprawling and dimly lit blocked
off web of veiny streets
whose lights cast coffeestain
halos through the encrusted eyelids
of its dormant youth.

When the no moneys found
the only houses they could spare
on the outskirts, mayor said it's
time to close the city limits.
Thus shoveling the neighbor barrows
in their Chineseplastic model
townships decreed with ignorant
haste that rendered a people
lacking and rot,
waiting for a train to take
them eighteen miles back—
—they grew hungry
and learned how to fry sewage
whose immediate effects resemble
comatose and sooner or later
they forgot about the train …
or that there ever was one …
or that the train tracks
were
never
laid.

In these adjuncts' ultralaxed case,
the land revolted and took
radical measures such as
sprouting weeds in old, renounced
sidewalks (a huge accomplishment to
the hippies some two thousand
miles away) for the used cars' mom
drivers rambled on the streets
seared with capillaries like
diseased harbingers of a visceral
cholesterol slowly compounding
a general and figurative measure
that would cripple a people.

And it stayed that way.

But back in
the sleepy little suburb
I call home,
the aging bones hoisting the
obese perennial malcontents are
splintering under the horridly
preconceived notion that this
service is eternal.

The specialist tells them to
rip it out to the spine; mayor said
to buy a different color paintcoat.

The sleepy little suburb proves
to be a morbid foil for shuffling
off the mortal coil. Cheating the
philosophies whence made a scholar
mad and Hamlet sad. All the more
mildly content, the least aware
suffer the petty foodsweeper's fate.
Here, falling debris is the leading
cause of death because everyone
here watches their hands grow
abstractedly (while walking or
driving cars, out to dinner or
the theatre, crashing into one
another or simply
existing in the limited sense of
regarding how much their hands
might grow) and the Daily Star
Herald will only cover the
unattended
artist's revolution.

To prove maybe health or maybe the
very jarring idea of existence,
every house on every block
develops its own postcards
sent only when the jolly
rollypolly gets his ravenous
encore every year.

Too bad every bank account
is liquid and transparent
because it matters and it also
does not, solely for the reason
that the local niceties and
rarities are smothered in
obtuse and flimsy backdrop,
set, prop, costume, cosmetic,
and supporting cast that sets
the stage for the audience to
critique under its wasted breath
(our star knows it too but her
proud heart would dissipate at
the first bonafide, openair 
acknowledgement and conspire into
torpid tears first accumulated
from the cruelty of some respected
male spirit manifested in a leather
belt, locked bedroom door, spat
spiteful words, or other degrading
phenomenon spawned from my
sleeping little suburb).

Only in the wee infant hours
of these same, cyclic days
can the dissociative, aloof and
yet abhorrent shade lean long
on the infinite shadows
of twilight and exhale a most
contrived expiration for having
to be ensnared, ball and chain,
in the psyches of these most
unfortunate and homoprophetic,
embellished and decadent,
deluded and genuine,
assured and anxious,
momentously inspired and eternally stalled
souls.

IMG_1965 copy

The Great Grey Lens: A Monologue

Engulfed in the hampering depths,
permeated with cataclysmic pyres;
the looming implosion would have
eclipsed at every pre-meditated
national news headline brimmed
with false hopes of a great purge
or forewarning a mediocre risk for
the elusive hobo's hot underhand.

None of it came true but for
the volatile composite brooding
beneath my eyes and quick to
saturate my vision, corrupting
all to a mere black and white.

Good and bad, whence good came
only from me and bad came from
everywhere but me. 

Me, a slivered phantom, projected
in the corner of suburbia's everyday
life, suddenly feeling the very
crux of subsistence and seized to
grand paralysis from, surely, the
entirety that the imaginative force
of gravity was derived to be.

From the feeble vantage, all real
things lost their accustomed
shapes and even thoughts for
merely light and darkness—not
a detail more but for my personal
judgement in a stern selfishness
unwilling to depart from my
normally yielding demeanor.

What conceit !

Does Sisyphus unlearn pride to
oust his eternal mortification?

Allotting my impaired standard upon
all things I came to perceive
delivered me to become increasingly
frustrated in all these things by
their fallacious corporeal being
in any way that it was. A tree,
people, animals, buildings;
whatever it was, I saw the somber
dusk beam from it in a glaring
lack of light that turned me so
numb and upset, then jaded and ill.

The light came from all things that
were no things. Fictitious, I
had thoughts of perfect circles
or the connectedness between
the lives that I had quietly
witnessed and conjectured loosely.

The more I began to see through
the darkness I began to see light,
the more I began to see through
the light I began to see darkness.

Then it all became uniform.

Some kind of a static osmosis
that radiated in a total cosmos,
that held my being in its nucleus,
and impelled me to be boundless,
and repelled me to be devoid.

Time was expunged from any
claim of significance, as the
light of the sun and the darkness
of the moon converged into an
auspicious grey all around.

Thoughts of the plane of grey
eventually subsided as the reality
I once knew materialized from
grey. All hue and shade developed
from grey. And then time gushed
from it all and I felt fine.

60805849

The Temple

Hot, dry winds of a desert land 
thrash me with my eyes on a steep hill—
walking up (unassuming of) the sand
until an answer to suffice will distill.

...

All in sight were miraged dunes,
the vast, paleblue heavens
and high in them, a waxing moon;
a desolate yet roaring procession.

At the crest of the seedy ascent
I felt devastated with awe seeing
a lone temple—pure aesthetic pleasance,
east and west, an immaculate being.

The temple lustered brighter than the sun,
glimmering in the wavering heat;
a dome carved diligently like meerschaum—
cascading swirls emanate from cleft concrete.

About the magnificent wonder there
were nine colossal, empty doorways
and nine identical, timeless gardens—
the sum of nine was in a latent interphase.

Approaching revealed the real size
where I seemed an ant pale to a
regal sandcastle—master of the tide.
An estranged statement of bourgeois.

Standing underneath the door, air
pulled in with (a) great (welcoming) force.
Faint whispers in my ear seemed familiar
as though my entry evoked remorse.

Traipsing prudently inside and all ceased;
the gale bequeathed a zephyr ceded
unto nothing—a latent reverence leased.
The still and mute air had been heeded.

Virgin-touched tiles of sheer marble lay
with artful equilibrium—so pacific.
Within the temple's heart flay
all benign commiserations (so cystic)

along with the congenial transgressions
that draw mortal thought and behavior;
the name in the dome compelled confession
(perhaps thinking as the temple's prayer).

Shafts of sunlight—lustrous rivers—
poured from the creviced temple walls;
all proclaimed would echo and then wither
(I expected more; an atoning squall).

This silence would succeed all delusion
past consequence or meaning to stillness;
the transfixed fragments of human
being becoming virtueless and sinless.

Epilogue

Silent, the existence and actions become.
Beyond standard measures,
Simply a fallen noun or
Mistaking one for another.
Bickering over the small facets of life
(The popular ones anyways) to prove some
Point to someone other than one's self.
No longer are events—tragic or joyous—left
To the simple effect, but all the failures
And successes in one's experience are
Attributed to the things of this reality.
Never to say 'face all manners with
Indifference' when Maman may die
But to let the silence lave all worries
And caliber, then let you decide what
Occurrences shall seep into your temple.
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Comments
One Response to “Exodus”
  1. Robyn says:

    Brilliant. I’m happy to see the epic continue and I love the editing you’ve done in the first part

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