Tautology of Western Involution

Feet can’t seep the street

keeping to themselves

they rub but never meet.




Overhead lines run

into grids. Wires

dim light. Guide

empty lids

into dormant lips




Homes and horizons, labyrinths

whose walls never converge



Recharge the battery,

replace the light bulb,

switch the filament

with its firmament,

return electric

to being-


will shed its skin


The barrier of this age

but sedimented mnemonic

and the map work made

over the ever changing


and the wringing inside our heads,

when in the eyes no one responds

is but despondence to our thoughts

and words, the-would-be exchanges-

conversations birthed born

to exhaustion,


in settled bitumen


The answer blockaded by the question,

an art we condition, dilate

and disillusion.

A cigarette we collect, conflate

and regret,

Until bird shit splits the egg,

clean in relief,

Offers smatterings of essence

on a consciousness put to sleep,

And the grit stuck between the teeth

are words you feel, but never say:

Language is a civilization

under pavement,

People are cities

feet teetering beneath steeples-

trees twisted and configured

to our latest loss of meaning

Dreamers of galaxies, but victims

of singular visions



Short sighted

in night blindness:

our wires dim light,

our lines run into grids,

guide empty lids into arid lips-


fissures, we keep, but never heal