noncommittal cosmic gestures add up
not in the sense of make sense
they don’t
meaningless accumulation
like all accumulation
manufactured necessity deceives
the shrug of equanimity says
das ist mir egal
a seductive voice repeats
spazieren
spazieren
spazieren
2.
painfully beautiful surfaces
insistent sounds and
tachycardia
then release
subtle expressions of
deflated desire
this is the metaphysical
detumescence
what grim realities reside
beneath the gaudy surface?
3.
air oppresses and
elemental imbalances
suggest the presence
of a threshold
passing through or
across or over
or beyond
the cold prickle
of intense heat
prepares the body
for strange rituals
the room that’s not a room
holds pain pleasure madness
in equal measure
4.
unexpected lines of resistance open
dead silence between vocal explosions
inspires moderate dread
path worn almost to nonexistence
leads to a sign reading
chamber number two
the number two implies
the existence of other chambers
does the french chambre
offer a place of rest?
or six loaded chambers
poised against time’s temple?
or the other roulette?
red or black?
odd or even?
yes
5.
uncategorizable sounds and
unrecognizable shapes
foster labored breathing
there must be one point
on one line in one plane
about which we can
know one thing
or one note in one sequence—
could its true
tone be heard
by ears in this shadow realm?
there must be a light somewhere
and an object for us
to reside within this shadow
Patrick Hurley taught writing and literature at various colleges for many years until he discovered bartenders make more than adjunct faculty and don’t have to grade papers. Now he makes poems. He is obsessed with a long project called walking.
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