Doug Bolling
Scree 52
Time then
I have touched there
Am child of all such
How words stretch through
Wanting a stopping place
Is it pastness lurks out there
Or tomorrow
A tapestry of unmeasured motions
How you departed seaward as I called out for
An ocean to cease
The vortex you said that night
From the Blue Angel Bistro
Write what you can as the moments go out with the tide
Write as though words can stay
The madness.
Scree 54
There had been counting through
The night
Voices calling through the
Lengthy corridors
How far to the oasis
What price the gift
Of mirage
I watched as you gathered the grains
From a dozen dunes
A sifting a project against
The chaos
We are driven to this
The voices say
0ne form of madness
Against the other
The human thing in its suspension
Between knowing
And not
The clocks rush on leaving behind
What might have been
We owe Proust so much it is said.
Scree 57
How we become entangled in
A thickness of
Moments
I watch as you scribble faster & faster
Across the hunger of
The leather bound diary
Where did we go wrong I ask of the collapsing hours
Where the turn that
Defined our steps
Perhaps it was a faulty paradigm if you remember
A leakage in the nouns
A bruised metaphor screaming
In its agony
For once along the rain splotched Parisian rue
Gertrude Stein gathered the shards
& smothered grammar
In a finely sewn shawl
Is it then to swim upstream among the
Twitchings of a clock
Fleeing the past as a buoy
A vast forgetting.
Doug Bolling’s experimental writing has appeared in Streetcake,
BlazeVOX, Posit, Indefinite Space, and previously in Otoliths among others.
He is working on a collection and lives in the greater Chicago zone.
previous page     contents     next page
↧
Article 8
↧