Cento poem, June 2010
Fallen. From a lofty place
The minor is always the undoing of the major
A tiny fainting spell:
A lapse, a descent, a fall
Intoxication, loss of consciousness, loss of self.
One cannot see any ice near the fire
A fall into self made with the explicit purpose of losing the self in desire
The greatest brightness, short of dazzling, sets near the greatest darkness
Color itself is a degree of darkness
The living strives towards color-
Alcohol drives color away
Color is killed in favor of form
The dream is always on the edge of nightmare
We have no sense of direction; we drift.
An abyss; disorientation, loss of consciousness, descent
Substances appear in color because they have released themselves from the moon-
the sun can give them nothing more
The sky was night, fury, and death; earth is clear sky, sunlight, and warmth
Eyes closed, drugged, unconscious
A gracious woman portrayed naturalistically
is not killed
but murdered
The individual is wanting in judgement
Just as a dream inhabits it’s own proper atmosphere,
so a conception, become composition
Thoughts stand still.
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