Friday, August 09, 2013

Pulsing With Busy-ness

The iconography of truth is never true;
Its subject is betrayed by murmuring academics,
And the daily thousand pages spat out in green inks,
And bold fonts, have no meaning beyond the parodies,
Of aging professors, doing the walk and talk,
Between the classical frames of Massachusetts colleges.

The diary entries, the lovers tied to dates and places,
The blooding and dancing of a mind combating chemicals,
Are just pitiful, unmoving flashes in the flow of vision,
On aging, flammable celluloid stacked high in rusting cans,
And we race to transfer all this memory to safer media,
Before it catches fire and burns black to spark to nothing.

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