Nothing Comes to Mind

Somewhere between understanding time as one moment lighting the fuse of the next, -and only that instant truly being illuminated before going out forever-, and it being simply endless and beginningless, -however quantum mechanics and general relativity end up resolving their differences- there are all sorts of other beautiful topologies. Twists and turns and arabesques and interdependent curlicues. Who knows what sorts of beings inhabit the interstitial non-time oceans between moments. I'm telling you there is room for popcorn and re-writing, and the occasional lost poet who simply can't find words to begin to express his wondrous befuddlement. There will come a time when semi-sentient drones deliver love letters, but until then we have old poets that drone on seemingly insensitive to the fact that they are alone in a dark place and the exit from the closet door is behind them. What I feel about this latest book of monotonous ponderings is that it is monotonous only in so far as it is plainsong, very very plain song. I fell asleep while it was boiling away in my big soup pot, and when I finally woke up and ran to turn off the fire, there wasn't much left except a few denuded bones and a steam that was dancing quite lustfully.

Pagina's: 99, Paperback, Independently published