Friday, June 10, 2016


Perfection and simplicity are signs
Of a particular kind of liar
For whom persuasion is secondary
And verisimilitude hardly a thought.

He works his way backward from abstractions
Of assumptions, placing them on the face
Of this infinitely complicated
Carrying-on we consider the world--

Seven circular, equatorial
Islands of superabundance and ease
Where there's sweetness even in salty seas,
For instance, float like coins on choppy waves.

The inhabitants are tall and beautiful.
Plants and animals are all edible.
Even serpent's flesh is delectable.
Relationships are wholly communal.

Death comes after a long and peaceful life.
At one hundred and fifty one chooses
To find the comfortably sacred bed
Of a certain plant, lies on it and sleeps.

These heavens and utopias are not
Acts of pure imagination so much
As acts of pure defiance in the face
Of imagination's mnemonic lust.

The idea is to assert that a world
Can be conjured refusing confusion,
A world bare but for the flimsiest gauze
Of mimesis wrapping its marble thighs.

The mind that is great, with or without us,
Collectively made by and making us,
Has these willful moments when it wishes
To anoint the unreal ideal, to laugh.

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