meempants

This needs revision, yes, but it's the first thing I've written in a while that I'm somewhat happy with.


FOUND ELEMENTS SEQUENCE 02-17-03

Eight miles high
and when you touch down
you look for it again
spend waiting minutes in public places standing around
looking into the dark
for something dark
passing time by stringing words together
strung lines in a sequence.

Here. Look what I've found.

Everytime the door opens you look up
hoping second chances
aren't passing you again
leaving you standing in another calculated rain
of found elements.

Here. Look what I've found. Lacking variation.

And in the finding,
nothing found
elements repeating like a rain
eight miles down
you spend your waiting words,
stringing minutes together
still waiting, nothing found.

Here look what I found. Clever clever.

Diminishing returns
diminish you, returning
doggerel returns
too far down,
a song that sounds just like another song you know.
You can't name either.
Coming back around or walking on,
it's all very clever,
which is working out just fine, thanks.

Reoccuring elements in sequence
a dream that never happened and remains
just so.
The elements are not a puzzle,
but I feel sick about it anyway
in my own voice;
no one hears it just the way it sounds.
But I speak too plainly.
Apologies.
But otherwise I obfuscate too far
and bleeding elements return.

But now---
no.
It isn't so.
It isn't done.
It isn't found not yet.
No grace to speak of;
to fall from which you have to find it first.

The rumours of my fall have been
greatly
exaggerated.
By who
I'd like to know;
I'd like to---no.
I'll find it. Sequenced.
Recursed again.
Redundancy enclosed.

(Re: obfuscation
note the second-person reservations
or the business-speak abbreviations.)



A reoccuring dream
just might have happened.
After a certain point the memory fails,
the memory, the dream, the memory of the dream
become a trinity
never to be divided.
Holy
or just full of holes.

Look. Looky what I founded.

Too ugly for words. Two ugly words. Et tu, ugly.
Et tu,
my rose-bespectacled spectators?
How goes the match?
Does it flare in the darkness?
Does it suit you?
Or does it simply plod?
I've found
the language fails to find
the proper elements besides.

But all this is sideways to the point:
this is not,
in fact,
performance art.
And not just because I can't "perform"
in public. Not trippingly off the tongue.
Ham I am. But, listen---
We are over-bound in elements.
Found in sequence,
coming around

Look what I found. No---

look.
I have no story to tell.
Just look.
And not
one
sound.