Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Random || 71/365 - 73/365


I have nothing new
to add to this world tonight—
save for a loose scrawl
of ink on the page, hasty
scratches of ill formed ideas.

Sudden clarity
can arrive just by leaving
a room, the door shut
behind you with a firm grip,
closing out all memory.

A conversation
suddenly starts up next door,
just as you trim back
my hairline, down to the scalp.
Clumps of hair fall to their words.

2 comments:

  1. I like the way the hair and the words fall in clumps.

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  2. Interesting you picked up on that— I was considering how the haiku and tanka verses show phrases in a squat, blunt format— looking at these poems collectively, one is surrounded by clumps of poetry— just as clumps of hair gather on the floor.

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