Academic vigours
lose their science
when it comes to art.
An array of space-point-time
lines foretelling
the devil’s future
in tingled palms,
they predict
useless fiscal gymnastics
in a landscape devoid
of tumbling mats. And
the earth? Upstream
folly commanding clocks
to run backward. We’re
left iceboxing in a desert
on the centennial eve of never-had-
existed. Avenue upon
avenue of comatose
dreamers, smiling at
the sun. I burn, therefore I am.
Joanna Suzanne Lee 
so many great lines in here…here is where you grabbed me…
folly commanding clocks
to run backward. We’re
left iceboxing in a desert
and that centenial line next as well…very nice…
thanks, brian! always a pleasure… 🙂
Love the “folly commanding clocks” line, a really gripping piece straight through.
Consider me one of the comatose ones! I guess most poets are, eh?
Very interesting word and image journey here. I liked the unexpected twists a lot!
I almost did not graduate college because of the useless gymnastics of algebra. NASA would not be hiring me under any circumstances anyway. Not only does science lose its academic vigor in art but also in theology. They are not in the same realm and are a true example of arguing apples vs oranges.
Carl, I believe there can be an art to science, but I agree that it doesn’t necessarily work well the other way ’round. And as for god, science + theology = metaphysics? ~:-/
useless fiscal gymnastics > lovin’ your wordsmithery as always, J. A stanza break? I could see it in tercets actually. Whatever, great piece
Love the idea of tercets, L. I can see it already– will definitely give it a whirl next round of edits. Thanks!
Love the finish! I burn therefore I am…ha! I could write a book on my thoughts on that single, finishing blow alone! Found this to be a fierce read, especially out loud, and really enjoyed the pace. The awesome image was a bonus!
Thanks! I can’t decide myself if I like the poem or the picture better…. 😉
Strong writing…angry…this hit the mainline. // Peter.
*bows slightly* thanks, Peter. a high compliment indeed. Always nice to hear your thoughts.
Always a pleasure to read your writing. 🙂 // Peter.
“folly commanding clocks” such a great line, nice share.
I am in mourning, each line stabs, excellent.
I love how you let this image lead you into a place of poetry. It feels so familiar to me…I drive through the Mojave several times a year on I-395 and both the image and the poem gave me a sense of deja-vu. Or perhaps the Sonoran desert.
wow – great write..We’re
left iceboxing in a desert
on the centennial eve of never-had-
existed… dang and then the last line..powerful
Did someone say ‘comatose dreamer’? Wll wlel.. here I am, smiling at the sun, burning! 🙂
Loved this one… intelligent, witty and very very original!! 🙂
xxx
Thanks, K. 🙂
haha! i totally dig the end. the question of existence is handled delicately as well as casually in this piece, and something about that seems quite appropriate:)
nice to meecha:)
likewise, ed 🙂
We’re
left iceboxing in a desert
on the centennial eve of never-had-
existed.
powerful truth!
Vision Quest
My desert
Furnace of a yearning soul
Where inclemency
Pounds, burns and starves
The clinging ego into submission
There behind the waning
And whimpering acolyte
Are the first sounds of silence
The sky escapes the largest canvas
And starlight comes all the way
From Andromeda
My desert
Where I am reborn
Into visions of unlikely realities
Evoked by the howl of coyotes
Nurtured by mystical, swirling winds
I walk here knowing
That no one else exists
Within a twenty mile radius
I am finally alone
Finally taking full responsibility
For my life
All the other voices I hear
Are in my imagination
A Conestoga
Full of baggage
And keepsakes
Painful memories
Which have come to the desert
To play themselves out
One last time
I will leave them here
Tossed over the edge
Or burned in a campfire
Or slid into a cold stream
I will gladly give them up
For Silence and Peace
The sacred ore
Of the inner Motherlode
Where no canvas sacks are needed
No strongbox
This precious thing
Is free for the taking
Once you’ve died to the old ways
My desert
Where the edge
Always threatens you
The edge of thirst
The edge of hunger
The edge of loneliness
But walking this edge
Brings forth the warrior
And the medicine man
And the true artist
They all commune with
The colors, textures and expanse
The clarity, the quiet and solitude
The ancestors, spirits and whispers
A hidden world
But knowable
An ancient world
With the fragrance
Of sage and dust
Here lies the beauty of a hostile world
The delicacy of wild flowers
And the toughness of sojourners
This is my world
My desert
You grace me with your signature comment-poems, as ever, Tiger. Thank you for this “desert vision.” Namaste.
I Don’t Have the Heart for Blah Blah
We started with a celebration
Of our poetic impulses
We begged the Muse
To grace us with insight
And passion and realness
I cannot shake off that world
Like a dog just coming out
Of a stream
Let me remain soaked
Saturated to the core
Smelling of the earth
Dazed and glazed eyes
In reverie
Wild with excitement
And discovery
And let me lift my voice
To join the chorus of poets
Living and dead
Who have walked this earth
In pain and rapture
With wounded hearts
And clear eyes
Determined
Against all odds
To express
What it means
To be human
…what it means/ to be human. powerful encore, my friend.
The absurdities of civilization, and yet so many of us never learn to see deeper. Great imagery here.
Beautifully written!
So glad I clicked the “subscribe” button. I had a Daliesque moment when you spoke of the clock, picturing it melting… lovely work! Amy
http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/box-room/
It’s a catching up day and I see I’ve missed many of your poems! This one is “must read”, more than once! Loved the image too!