Saturday, April 1, 2017

Whood Athunk/Philip Byron Oakes

Parsing oohs and aahs for triage in the afterglow implying
a slow simmer's fall from grace, in the burn baby burn days
of one's youth. Measuring time by the remnant. A freefall to
ashes, marking the moment of discovery, setting the chill
free to find its footing in the wasted won over by the breeze.
Bruising the space to breathe. Keeping the seat warm for a
synopsis of the years. Parting the ocean from a drop to drink.
An air of having weathered what's worn to suit a pretense,
brooding over the grave of the way it's supposed to be,
echoed in embers scrawling aphorisms in the midnight haunts
of high spirits. What can't be bought at an auction of the
intangibles. The pregnant pauses with bright, healthy children.
The tang's last appearance under the lights. The chances
cluttered with possibilities too numerous to seize upon. If in
photogenesis only, culled from the madding, barely foreseen
as the crests of the wave of all but humanity to the rescue.
Glutting the cavity in lieu of a heart, steered to transplant a
belief into the canon of quirks and privilege unbridled.
Feeding into a timbre that makes the song go round the
reasons it's come to be. In the broken's way of saying all is
well. Clarity's litmus flowering in the fog, as the veterans
of something unspoken yet all but said see. Momentum
towards the random finding nowhere first and home at
last. The thin air where people go to breathe.

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