A better place

Holding up
the signs,
colorful and demanding,
we resist:
all the evils
and inconveniences
and misleading subtleties
of the world
recede.
And beside ourselves,
unveiled even,
and often,
and swirling until we don't even know
where we are in the haze
of morning.
I wanted more, you know.
Directness, at this hour,
if you can believe that,
or anything still.
Tonight's not the night.
It's acceptance in all it's ritual,
Latin rite and four sided and
constant.
And then there is change
in all its fury
and ambition.
Imagine if you will.
And there was imagery
and memory and we were somewhere
and those things are lost
in the syntax and transmission
and there is nothing
on the screen.
We've, of course,
gone beyond,
a false modernity,
post-itself,
guiding us into our failures again,
into something we are not
when we are not even one
beyond

Channels

And there are islands,
fixed
and emblematic,
we could go to,
or relate;
make a story
in order
to tell.
A butterfly
on the wheel,
or under and ivied
we're holding on to
that which

wings out into the
distances and look up
all the sad young
men muted and
tone-deaf like
it's going out of style,
when it's all just concepts;
concrete and woodland
and abstract modern art
sculpting ourselves
and what is lost
is what we have left,
to trade, or give,
anything to relate.

On losing daylight

It was walking along this river,
a particular, both void and incapacitated by
emotional attachment
(predating written history)
that all of our conversations resolved themselves
and I came home
still
lacking resolve
to society in all its splendor and commerce and intrusion and isolation
and a great inside joke that we're all in on, none left behind
wondering if it's possible to be optimistic for all the wrong reasons
(tonight), talking
of ancient orders and last rites and all the things
You never believed in and couldn't
persist without, incantations and
revolutionary bottles of wine, victims of
counter-revolutionary treacherousness and hubris and just being too damned
obvious, to
classics of perfect emptiness and all photogenic,
hitting gusts of wind made just for this moment in
all the heavens,
and intuition
in the chemical sense

in all dramatic fury and blood alcohol:
the foolishness of God is wiser than the
weakness of God, and vice-verse,
rolling, tumbling above ground, home.
New songs and old tunes, you better believe
we haven't heard it before
and can't spare the time to listen even now
to the words as colors in a blur and patterns
in paisley and unreal,
sphinx,
have I not answered?
There is much to be done
passively
and Thy will, unexpressed
is just intentions bound
to become regrets,
the first seven
give or take
or both.
We have not seen this city
through one set of eyes
as it was, then
(as you were)
, or scale:
village, town,
metropolis,
gas stations and bars
and scenery:
disciples all,
jacks of the tricks of the trade,
passed out by this point past the highways and turbines
a thousand little
frames
desperately and radiantly refusing to become symbolic
as is the state of all things,
we, outsiders, not even speaking
most times
were predictable and predicted
and yet,
and thus, the great sages of our day
move steadily on,
suits and ties emblazoned
open-minded mantras that only you
can see, if not read, patterns.
There may have once been a difference between the two
(you said)
(and still I disagree with you on the immemorial principle
of conflict,)
(and victory-less, still, we aren't)
, but it seems I haven't found it
tonight.