Ptomaine extraterrestrial

“In my beginning is my end.”

--T.S. Eliot, East Coker







Credi in UFO’s?



Her immediacy to resist death,

And the recalcitrant fight to submerge in life,

Reminds us not of a battle, but a raging pacifism,

Caught up in the filigree of atomized consciousness,

Left to breed among the Moline crosses of an

Abandoned church falling to the lamented ground by the

Absence of belief.



So afterwards, the drinks sparkled in their own bioluminescence,

As if a parasitic tick was feeding upon our livers, shinning without

The light of the anachronistic human race, but producing its

Own malevolent illumination to cover her resistance with the

Hinting thoughts of her dying against the meaninglessness of a

Nihilistic dawn with the presence of alien abstraction, and the wounding of time’s

linear progression into significance.

the cruelty of the waves

The cruelty of the waves

Sinking into valleys where there is no space or time,
The sounds of distance resonate through clarion silence,
Into the hearts of the bleeding children, high in the air above
The world that has been created for them: nothing again, nothing after, only an abstraction, a way to mend the hearts of many, but
Leave nothing for the few who really care about this loss of memory;
The calling into the higher grounds of existence: there is no fun to be had here: there is no games: there is no playground here, but signs point to the place where they once danced and sang along with the
Cruelest motions of the waves, crashing into the breakers, rolling
Out into the sea with sand caught in the throes of aquatic love for them, while we sat down on the chairs on our porch overlooking the ocean, thinking of what we must do to save them, when to save is but a key in the foundation of life’s mystery that we spend all night
And all day trying to solve with bemusement and stinging pride of our intellects swirling around in a logical fog somewhere above the great Atlantic.