Language
as Beckett supposedly said
(or was it Ionesco?) is something
gone wrong with the silence.
Writing: an act so simple it isn't worth
mentioning. An action so brutal it can
separate the mind from the fallible body,
which is chained to the cyclic tortures of sleep
as bottleneck, switchboard, ground.
Idiot and idiom derive
from the same Greek root
meaning private, one’s own,
Gramsci noted
Is it possible some of those lost or discarded pages
were precisely the ones that might have supplied
some meaning, the missing phrase? Are they
alive somewhere and growing, like the children
whose faces adorn or deface milk cartons?
Being in the present
observes Anne C. Klein
is always interesting
Sometimes you flare up—demanding
fairness, attention, sanity—becoming
unfair, inattentive, insane.
This release is a mild stimulant,
about as harmless or harmful as coffee,
depending on your metabolism
Pasolini believed
that revolts are fed
by a secret
anxiety for order
Ask yourself: is the whole thing
merely a swirl of indifference,
an ocean of chaos where we try
to shore up islands of light?
The passions are numberless.
You vow to extinguish them all.
But not yet.