July 29th, 2004

Cthulhu Joyce


In the quiet hollows of a half-walled room,
the two-beast broke down and chanted.
Above him, the clapboard watchers pose
for paparazzi that no longer come.
The two-beast does not care.

His noise stifles their already
vacuous pleas. His requiems' cadence
wraps around the hollows,
hallowing the walls with lucid fallibility.

By noon he stirs in the quiet,
his voice having gone out with the others.
The two-beast stalks out to become the other.

His reluctance apparent. Working too hard is a good way to dash one's head against a chasm of frustration.

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Cthulhu Joyce

An explanation

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and I and I sold the wood for lumber.

In this hubris, an act that says poetry is as dead
as God and Nietzsche's infiltration,
I would ensure my seat
far away from the halls of antiquity and pop culture. God will build my house
from the scraps and bonds Bob's wood provides. He is no shirker, but I will not work for anything
until I am dead.

I am not dead when the indian curtain transforms me into a clacking huron.
My guardians avert their eyes as the mists and swirls give me my dignity,
as if my transparent nature is squalid. I am no school girl,
oblivious to envy and stringy hair.

I can fly
white feathers given to the hard, broken road.
This is why I am not dead.
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