“I feel that poetry has the power to pinch one’s heart to such an extent that the reader thinks twice and thrice before he or she interprets it.” (Sonam Tsering, Silent Songs of Sonsnow)
STATIONS OF THE MASQUE
Dawnings oxygenate idées reçues.
A shadow in the mind turns solid & appreciable,
angled & degreed & weighty.
— Blew me away, she said, I mean
hell bent for leather spur-raked
cayuse of affront
A plangent, evanescent naked swirl,
dwindled to weather swindle,
prosopopoeia in a pee cup —
— Turn down the bed when it suits you.
Louie is not himself tonight. I’ll be gone upstairs.
Pressure at sea level plateauing to millibaric norms. Ongoing going on platform crude tap offshore… going going going going going …
(c) 2020 JMN