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Tag: Douglas Pinson

The Purpose of Life is Life

The Purpose of Life is Life

Everything is ex There is no why We don’t have a clue We don’t have a rationale Beyond bad or good or great Fictions This is how we survive This is where it takes place My store of knowledge Is on East Main Street So the Thought Police usually Leave me alone   There is strength in numbers Fewer than twenty More than that and we have Problems and they Investigate They always investigate Big numbers Big figures Big loops…

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Spiral Staircases, or It Pays to Reread

Spiral Staircases, or It Pays to Reread

Up in the mountains a man wrote a novel. It was set by the sea, about a woman who wrote plays, mostly about poets. The novel focused on one play in particular, about a fine young poet who, as a side-gig of sorts, cooked dreams down by the harbor and sold them for two bits, or a smile, whichever came first. It was a catastrophe!! The novel, the play, the dream cooking, the works!! It was as if the whole…

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Enthusiasma Giganta Comedía

Enthusiasma Giganta Comedía

I dove like Gilgamesh Into the deep For the youth plant The one that got away The snake shed its skin Thousands of years ago Thousands of miles From great-walled Uruk Would this happen to me? Would I forget the gift Lay it on the ground To be snatched in a flash Like youth itself? There is no suspense To the journey We know how it ends But we act as if This time Because it’s me And not that…

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This is Not a Poem

This is Not a Poem

The Monkey Climbs a Tree I. With words come the square, the block Of sound, time and space With words, you fill the square And we bounce you hither and yon The block of time and space, ex nihilo Becomes something you see, touch, hear Smell if you’re advanced Taste if you leap beyond the possible II. An image does more, because it is The thing in a sense A copy of the thing at least But words can never…

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Before the Frost Comes

Before the Frost Comes

The Realist Struggles With Vacation Brochures   The painter who wanted to sing And write and travel And be the incognito ruler of the world Left his apartment that should have been a house Or a mansion In the country not the city Instead of bleakness He wanted lush greens and grounds And stone pools Shining in the sun Years were to be filled With talks and walks And healing of souls Through his words or images The notes coming…

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The Decision

The Decision

And he thought about building Crafting Making things Merging the useful with the useless To some For there are beings in this world Who care nothing for beauty There are beings in this world Who care nothing for art So he would build the functional And make it sing for the tone deaf For the colorless he’d make Things bloom in usefulness But then he thought Why work so hard For them? For the beings who pass it all by…

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Thrown into Being

Thrown into Being

The clearing She thought she heard The last clearing It was Heidegger’s not hers And after his keyre His turn So many turned on him But not for that For other things like his falling out of Being With the world With the world as it ought to be So she passed through that last clearing On her way to something nonfictional Non-mythical . . . beyond epic legend and folk-tale Existence comes before essence she thought Or we have…

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Death and the Mountain

Death and the Mountain

I The splinter of sunrise in the mind Before the wind shifts And the beacon fades All of life is a furtive glance By death By death in life Unless we laugh and make that splinter Shine Make it manifest as full beam As entire sun Entire world   II The girl feared no one would care She feared no one would come after her But Van Gogh watched And Van Gogh cared As she walked into the horizon alone…

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