Oh, Earth, these blemishes

Oh, Earth, these blemishes
Can be scrubbed dead clean,
This unseemly infection stopped,
But to no avail, all the evidence

Points to the scabs bursting open,
Life pouring out again and again
In all its musty bigness,
The anti-entropic urge

Of the womb is doomed
To eternal resurgence

It’s not rebellion – nothing so seemly,
So ordained by high principle –
Just a thing impossible to stop,
A thing in a crack,

A seam in an ocean of atoms,
An imperceptible pause
In the continuous instant,
A suddenness within chaos,

How ice forms from steam
How fire struts across the built and unbuilt alike

How two disparate things join
Into a whole, unbegotten, unbidden.

Down at the deepest level, they say,
Things pop in and pop out
On less than a whim.

Coffee

I sit at a table riddled with worm holes,
As manufactured as the chained and slashed
Surface on which I write, burn marks
Sealed in polyurethane gloss, all for

A borrowed twilight, an impermanence
Enshrined for eternity, or as near it
As artifice can come, fuzz-box guitar
Scratching through the conditioned air.

Outside, the latest mercury vapor lamps
Dressed up gassy, the rhythmic flicker
Punctuating the entrance, everywhere
Authenticity for sale, at a premium.

I examine my coffee, dubiously.