A Badly Turned Angle


More apocrypha than fact, ache and fear rub
their way back from a badly turned angle,
another man’s menace cancels the checks marking off
thoughts we accepted as correct, listing and prosaic
in our sententious descent downhill from workers of
wonders into ashes imbalancing scales shedding our embellishments,
taciturn perverts with miraculous mouths filling the bowels
of crookèd hearths with snarling quips of charlatan
comfort, the church of our purpose built with
blocks of text, bricks of words burning up
at any mention that loneliness is a companion,
rejecting with missionary zeal its accidental pronouncement at
an hour when misunderstanding catalyzes by elegant gestures
this bending to another’s will no one else
comprehends, not yet, the more passionate the magnetism
of his essence, the greater a devil’s chances
at letting him fill us with sin, salesmen
apprehending that possessions are an extension of one’s
body, and always have been, they come in


droves, suggestive clouds of visionaries fitted with throats
of doves making explicit the chaos they unplug,
making martyrs of newcomers to this art by
plaguing into scrying bowls temptations they spill, wayward
angels disambiguating the path a soul that cannot
bear the weight of its own ability has
to stop fearing and accept, that the only
corner we have to back out of is
at the border of consciousness, where, moonlit and
malevolent, the stateroom of one’s insular mind floods,
and, up to our necks in waking dreams
as irrational as they are impossible to handle,
wrangling sleeping reason’s creeping monsters, to master them,
we have to think quick, deciding without time
to weigh against its consequences the possible benefits,
do we salvage its furniture or sink with
the ship? A mind out of line hits
bottom as if changing circumstances were no more
than a matter of course for the cursed.