intellect and will

“I’m a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will.”
Quoted by Antonio Gramsci who made famous Romain Rolland’s maxim “Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will.”

There is no afterthought, no sunken realization
no bellweather moment of askew tangents
no riveting of starry eyed stony silences to
anchors of yore, anchors of near distance.

And there is the act, mere hint of an act that follows the consequence of the preceding one.

There is no mere dilly-dallying of clever aphorisms
no curvature of light loud enough to blind
no algorithm perverse enough to loop for
ever and no revelation of heaven in dust.

Yet there is the act, the sheer act of gutting out the innards of doom and making it right.


The empire is sacred

“The empire is a sacred vessel and nothing should be done to it. Whoever does anything will ruin it; whoever lays hold of it will lose it.” Tao Te Ching (XXIX)

An odd navel gazing that makes and keeps on making the same
Error; an uneven
Bent of sight goes on galvanizing sightless tirades of excellentia,
Apologia when
The naught of naughts was so much at hand, when the grace
Of a zero could
Persuade an inner calm, when the stream could have meandered
Downwards as
Physics would have it had it not been for a relentless will of wanton


Poincaré’s recurrence

The Poincaré recurrence theorem states that certain systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state very close to the initial state.

That return is a given is goose-bumpingly reassuring, but
The initiality, is it just the primordial sense of togetherness
Or something less? If so, what to make of the guarantor who
Does with her math what the fairytale-teller does with his
Amoral ends grafted onto mystic beginnings and shadowy
Roomfuls blighting necessity upon daft necessity in a blink?


Between the day’s passage

Between the day’s passage and the
Tenderness of night that cleaves you

To a remembrance shaken by god’s
Reckonings that accumulated like

Stones on the river shore, like beads
Of fire penetrating glassness of root

And weariness of things that surrender.


Incessant as the wind

Incessant as the wind, growing fabric of air as
The whoosh settles down.

Incessant as the wind, gnawing out fungal roots
At the core of mottled being.

Incessant as the wind, groping at straws of lazy
Noons and evergreen nights.


This ruckus of storied time

This ruckus of storied time, passage of night
Styrofoamed day, meandering hushed blues
Crying noon songs of choked tears staining
The floor red, this ruckus of storied time that
Makes new the revelation, brings forth the
Trepidation, and shouts out the abdication,
This ruckus of storied time, this passage of
Grits stuck somewhere, finding not noon
Solace but evening shade, red with expectant
Markings etched on the face of a sleeping
Priest greeting you once again with open arms.


It is the I

It is the I which goes the distance
In becoming the tiny truth that 
Pretends to see the distance in
Believing the littlest and the stone.

It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon 
Night, in giving vapid vent to the 
Inner dark and the outer dark.

It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.


If it is not enough

If it is not enough, this passage of lugubrious atoms
standing as if there is no wall to silence the screams

If it is not enough, the morphologies of distance and
their formation of stars in the dark recesses of time

If it is not enough, those eschewings of sentences
which are like habits of the mind lulled into numbness

then the gradation of blue can be treated as shades
of violent greys and limpid yellows, then the fulfilment

of time’s unceasing gasps can be held in your fist
and stared at for a long time, as long as it takes.


Sophomoric dystopias

The trebled bases of time, the languid
Sophomoric dystopias that fill your livid

Bases mingled with sweet morrows and
Shaded hapharzardnesses climbing out

Of some noons which are shaded with
Syllabyllic time, shepherded once again

With rhyme, bespectacled with the rhythm
Of time, and riddled with the conspiratorial

Factories of many days, many nights and
The leftover grains speaking less loudly 

Only because of distance, a distending 
Distance stretching out because it was due.


Changing the world

Changing the world one axiom at a time, one
Axiom offered at the altar of the sages who

Have pounced on Zeno, pounced too on
Pythagoras, for having enunciated truths

That have nothing do with fact, the horror
Of horrors, the sacrilege of ignoring data.

Changing the world elliptically as prescribed
In the constitution of the repetitive again

And agains swerving the elliptical orbit to
Move onto its center, gravitating left to the

Right of center, to prove once again in its
Againness the repetitiveness of the curvature.

Changing the world one hypothesis at a time,
Undoing one misrepresentation or better yet

Supplanting a suppler more pliable more viable
Representation in its stead, at a time. And giving

Vent, breathing room, walkable-in-a-dangly-sort-
of-a-way space, one cubit of space-time at a time.