A quilt of ad hominems keeping orphans warm.
Defending the static quotient by which the infinite
shrinks, to fit a premise the power finds palatable.
A swamp of normalcy, belching undigested bits of
the enigma, into a miasma leading one by one to
believe. In a gel of the disparate on old time knees
bent to keep from breaking for the door.
Bequeathing a passage through the glaze of
particulars. Slippery in sliding the wont beneath
the guise of rounded days. A desultory elegance
presumed an antidote to the clamor as the hour
runs out of options past tock. Deadened nerves
taking the temperature at its word. By virtue of
corollaries, mimicking the topography of inner
landscapes, sculpted by emotive elements
periodically sweeping the table, to sabotage a self
on loan from the way it’s supposed to be. In
keeping the portals clear for the to and fro of the
unseen but felt, in the myriad tangents of fear
catching up to the word in a cloud of omens. As
it needs to be in order. Only the context turning.
To ferret out what’s lurking between the greenery
and the grass. Sponsoring a face for the occasion
thought unreachable, by hands or feet, the
writhing in the tumult, tending the blink of
the steed embodying the metaphor for the
grid giving the void that special place to
come home to.
Philip Byron Oakes
Coming to Your Yah Yah
1 September 2013