USA

daniel@artship.org

Prolepsis

The Links that we cannot forge are evidence of the transcendent.
--Simone Weil

In an age of crass banality, of the civilized barbarity
of instant closure and empty greetings,
how's it going is no question
                               but an injunction
to expedite ones state
no matter what state, no matter where one is going
or has been. Take too long, take a pensive
brood in daydream and soft focus on the hazy
outer edges of the eye to see
a span of colors for the sake
of a respite, and you're out.
                              Loitering
about the counters of intent
is weak, for there will be no weakness in this place,
no seekers exhuming the essence of anything.

In fact, for now, there is no essence, no soul source
to which one longs. It's all on the outside located
in weekends and vacations, in trends, celebrities,
sports and fast food. The pursuit of happiness
has been denatured and neutered,
and somewhere a heart melds into an alloy,
but not completely, not yet.
One of the last holdouts.

To Those Who Are Left

Blunt, direct, to the point, the razor point, not to be confused
with the grafted interior of a sacred geometry, container
of many points, but the absolute point, on the target,
down the middle, the bottom line, point zero, straight
and narrow gray matter absence for the sake of a narrative
with a story to tell, with characters, streets, cities,
built around meshing everyday with every other day:
to tune into this point, the one the audience gets
with tears of conveyance: to hold this as if life
depended on it, because it does and narrows,
tightens and consolidates all effort into a single
act which must be acted upon for fear
of slipping down the pit of suspicion.

Stasis

Stasis in the balancing act, acts off balance,
speeds chaos into play and plays havoc
with order, ordered to perform to avoid escape
from ones duty to perform and repeat stasis
in the balancing act to weigh the means
to juggle the impossible, pushed to the limits
of movement and moving another step, parallel
to the last, hanging by a thread, between
brittle facades that hold the stasis
in the balancing act, tilting, about to fall
and shatter in the oblivion of what
it might have been, what it might have held.

© All Copyright, Daniel Harris.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.