parallel verse

For every misstep that primes an obdurate
chalkline bent on rivet and stone, there is

a river; for every grey moon standing right
there, right there, there is a brook; for

every bard and every mistimed word that inks
the barren page, there is a stream, and it flows.

Where is the keep

Where is the keep, the stalk, the
Pouch of the peacekeeper, the
Revered pulse of fox and cherub?

Where is the seep, the chalk, the
Reaping of gouged out verse forms
Competing with skylines and streams?

Where is the deep, the hawk, the
Feline misadventures calling you
In the first person singular, I?

platonic

An anti-spoke cartwheel rebounds
Centripetally vacating spoofs of
Dustworms wishing, waltzing - An

Arthritic verse-form matches rap
Of pain in three, four syllables
That are evocative, ebullient- A

Strange remembrance bothers lost
Trapezoids seeking form in three
four platonic wholes, wormthings

Wittgensteinisms

“1 The world is everything that is the case.” (1)
In case you were wondering it was otherwise. In
Any case, it follows that the contrary is
Contrariwise to the wisdom of the unwise:
Ipso factum dictum potus collapsimus.

“1.1 The world is the totality of facts, not of things.” (2)
And that is a god-honest truism, with the
Mathematical oath of truth tucked under
The collar of airtight proof and water
Borne disease: such are things and facts.

“1.11 The world is determined by the facts, and by these being all the facts.” (3)
Not a single factotum logicitis is to
Be left out, for that would be blasphemus
Homologus, an isomophic isotope of hydrogen,
Not unlike air, as opposed to water. Yes.

“1.12 For the totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case.”(4)
Here you go, case closed. The ipsonessess
And factotum alumni sit in closed spaces
Where atoms of flair carry out conversations
In vacuum. There is much disagreement & air.

1-4: The first four statements from Ludwig Wittgenstein‘s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Child’s play

The push of the playfairy will not
Coalesce with green tales of the
Plush and prickly, but the child will
Play, and why not? The sunburnt moon

Will not crash in the sea, but it will
Want to, and why not? Some corner of
The wayfarer and some nook of the pun
Will want to crisscross their abysses.

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby’s very own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby’s mind, and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.
“Baby’s World” by Rabindranath Tagore, Crescent Moon