Are haunting dirges
slipping through the memory crowd
like punctuated dreams


bringing uneasy whispers
inserting hesitation
into any declaration

such modest questioning
so frightful to them behold
uncertain that all is known


So many in this fear
of intellectual height
taken from their pedestals

asking at the tollbooth
for the linguistic maps
you haven't thought be drawn


wishing for a hint
is an exercise in folly
they coat the garden floor

take what things to will and think
the intangible not so obscure
casting about with a butterfly net




and





Piling up monotonous memory
like stacks of crumpled paper
endlessly chewing broken pencils

Of listening to that dominating clack
of the delete key
in a failed keyboader's discordant
discordant solo discard symphony

The self perpetuating insecurity
of an individual in his lingual ability
will go right on propagating itself
as those shambling mountains of paper
whose every line of thought
has been run through again and again
with a lance of blue for spite






reflecting though
as he leans up against
a Grecian philosopher
(acid blurred rain the solid stone)
all these half-given riddles
these haunting dirges
the hours they've consumed
unresolving petulantly silent
dwelling in their shadow
he doesn't want to stop
trying to answer
because then

then he's almost alive

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