Vain Apocalypse | WritersCafe.org

Finches and Feelings

They're like yellowfinches, frightened aflutter,Freed from cagesI'd not sight of to touch.Circling 'round myhead, through cognitive clutter,chirping mad,immune to steering or clutch.Watching thoughts,like birds that come unbidden,Never hints athandling a puppet’..

Memories Have a Heft

Lift with your legs.

Ex Atoma

Mereological nihilism, it’s what’s for dinner.

For the Greater Onion

Perspectiveput at pith this formless bud.Securein some superi’r sphere, secures,thebud, exchange, a refuge, board and blood,yetendures naive of what perspective obscures.Anonion bulb mothers. Its bud matures,discernsconcentric spheres of alien tiers,Critiq..

The Spider in the Sink

In reality, I was so appreciative of the inspiration that I let the little one live. I mean, aren't we all just spiders in somebody's sink?

The Tiniest Ballet

A companion poem to "The Tiniest Ballerinas."

The Tiniest Ballerinas

An allegory.

Beliefs Like Glue

A brief, scantly thought out dialogue. It's neither new nor of notable quality. It's dated the 13th of May, 2007.

The Catalog

A hundred thousand philosophies and ideas on politics, metaphysics, and ethics, and I don't even have a convenient catalog with which to browse them all.

Mirror Mirroring a Mirroring Mirror

A visual image coupled with musing on self-referencing loops and their likeness to the illusion of a soul, inspired by Douglas Hofstadter's I Am a Strange Loop.

The Gullet of a Lie

He who gorges himself, and in feasting dies, is swallowed down the gullet of his lie.

Humbled

Haiku

Memento Mori

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died.

On Balloons and the Weightless

Where comes this reckoning of bated grip,this fierce fraud against my trusting ties?It comes at a verdant acreage tip,where azure skies beckon my prize, "rise, rise."Tail past my hold, an adieu from my eyes,That cherished, shrinking, cherry speck quit mefor a bed, brighter and blue, wher..

A Soulless Word

Word users, by right of power, decide who's a who and who's an it.

Ad Infinitum

It matters not if I sleep, wake today,Or the morrow greet; at end, the actionof meat is wasted as but worms' buffet,'neath foot in bloated guts, gone to abstraction.Thus I quit all, favoring inaction.Pity the temporal is sans success;feast to famine, desert from Eden,Life to death, fro..

"I" Am Strange

Inspired by I Am a Strange Loop by Douglas Hofstadter