OBJECT, SUBJECT & ODE

What's Pity?

Prophecy its own framework,
wading in the disastrous Righteousness

the world-indicting recluse, I collected it
intently, intimately, neatly up into
a ball of sand very loosely connected ^[sic]

blissfully, blindly but under the shady excellence
of eternity's most beautiful lash

& God-knows Why holding together

Shame like an orchard &
Remorse without suffering The Fall

yet buried, a mole, the gorgeous tenderness throb
I unkindly unearthed him from my mind

Thusly having made up the magnificent Womb
of thoughts: An Object
for my Pity in the miracle of storms

Desire & Regret all married to a panic

I searched high & low for a Subject
bent back to its very fundamental traces sans form
into a never-was, past Organic Empty Spaces

some ungainly God: To whom I should address
my Pity & finding Him graciously, readily waiting:

sipping lukewarm tea like some cool-lipped fluke,
for my little test already unsteady at the highest

cycle of Thought, seasons like the steadfast
& hints of the heedless metal bones
of stillness like milestones

the pallid sighs of his offenseless eyes
sounding across the anonymous reprise
of my Conscience like a nod--

I neatly placed upon his trusting hands
the loosely connected ball of sands

which promptly granulated through
his fingers like clues of the immortal
hues no one knew, the blind mind pursuing
the somewhat suitable, the truth too mortal

trembling in its power, and leaving me O
ever so hard put to explain to my Subject

the Object of my Pity a loosely-connected
ball of sands betraying his roughened desert-
ed hands, dullness like some dignity, manifold

like that lunatic Behold! the ghosts,
suspicions, th'beliefs, opinions, human & inhuman,
the objective definitions, or

lobsters slowly struggling through
the unending dangling beautiful
veils, of the limited brain

towards: Mind the Monster!
profound as love, transparent

as what we're after he stood there mystified,
holding with patience, between his fingers

scratching the falling grains of Time
sifting his mind with brutal expedient
of defective lightnings streaking back & forth,
beating back the blackness

of Night Intellectual
the comfortable Everlasting

distressingly trying to craft cool lenses
in a bleeding of molten glass:

crass as sublime & as flabbergasting

So, as delicately & as best I could
I gathered up all loosely connected Explanation
at hand, into a rather confined ball

of Moods like a mud once hued
now dull ... & spreading them

like annihilation upon Ashes
the table of Man: warm emotions

unrealized (not wanting to seem rude),

self-burning the ever-rounding Cosmos
into a waste of forever ice
desiccating into fable & dust
and all the other made-up stories
of our will & must

I carefully, delicately
packed them to a trust
th'most loosely-connected ball of all

& then, with lips crumbling
whistled for my poor soul
to come right over for the ultimate testing of

Truth! that tattler ripping through
the brambled Mind like a momentary gamble

(I told him I'd only been jesting before)
and was about to pass over to his hands

only too willing: the rainbowed dusts
of my Pity like some muddy contrabands

sifting backwards all across the cold
annulments of human recall

WHEN without the slightest warning
the very Object of my Pity
suddenly blew into my hands
a mighty ditty of Thanks & Praises

for my gift life-sacrifice!...

scattering Explanation
right into my eyes--Startled! Pained!

Puzzled! blind, I stood there
completely, absolutely taken aback
with his solicitude (for my Pity)

& not to mention: Quite unglued,
eyes red & itchy, subdued, unsure

if maybe he was just being rude, certainly
feeling a little bitchy

but controlling the muddy moods
as usual: confused, frustrated, disarmed,

naked & nude, smack at the center
of the unavoidable commonplace cold,

cold Exit whistling in the detested place
its Song of skin-crawling

away WHEN he seeing this on my face
& perhaps really believing he could do no harm

with pitying, he started (intently,
intimately) packing up into a ball
of always loosely connected--

& I knew that poor sap'd never even heard of glue
so no matter how intimately connected,

how intently he rolled up all the sands
of the world to a tee, timeless
Eternity: its
only too tentatively connected sands

he then placed carefully & delicately
to my hands!... Alas!

It just ran right through my fingers!
quickly as stardust, as it must:

Existence like a collation
in its golden gleams but a mist

all our Must & sighs, but
remote brawls of Impossibility

like Wind's squalls quite invisible
in the interpretation like panthers
through the most peaceful tufts:

beauty its requisite seam, the skinny-
dipping Anonymous, put-downs

the implacable pains, our unseemly Destiny
the incurable spinster gathering up its
ball of lives (for a sock)

and the infolded purples of The Imperfect dawn
umbilical in the dimly-lit infinity
(in its own dark Womb) and

the marbled minimums! of our humanity
(those treasons like trusts:
our mortal, our only too mortal, human

gestures) ... and that complaisant botanist,
that Nature so-called: mute, terrible & gaunt,
cruelest, most colorless of all!) leaving me,

abandoning me to my irresponsible, own
consciousness, O th'emptiest feeling

of inhumanity! staring down upon hands
unable to hold on to most anything at all

(if anything) that's blown up-
on even the most peaceful breezes,

self-pities of a fashion,
in whose ease everlasting: I

then finally understood
what the poor soul had been trying to tell me

so firmly, and then only too well:

in the gritty circle of our human regimen

... of The Singularity! and

of the Solitude!