#bad conceits

[titustheandroid]

What was to be Shown?

(1) Mathematics hangs as pure expression Of an object, in simplest terms. In schools, it’s a well-tread highway Each chapter a town with an eerie name.

(2) Linear equations, Polynomials, Factoring, Rational functions, Inverses, Trigonometry, Polygons, Vectors, Graphing, Limits, Derivatives, Integrals.

(3) Each of these abandoned For more sophisticate pastures. Main streets from Greece, To France, to Arabia. They haunt the soul with eyeless windows, While somber servants cart shadows Inch by inch down the highway Toward an infinite ocean The servants shirk from.

(4) All the lanterns are gone out, Or carried into clouds. So how do shadows hold When twilights pass in these places? They wander off the path And what was to be shown Lies unilluminated, for another set Of well-worn hands to show- and-tell.

(5) The lamps float across the infinite ocean. Peering over the sides of dinghies, Espying dirigibles overhead. In the shallow places they find Blueprints for more towns Past where the highway ends.

[titustheandroid]

Suburban Surface Integral

At the boundaries of subdivisions, Subdivided infinitesimal, below The level of yards, lawn-mower lanes, Leaves of grass, limits unknown, The subatomic cuts away, (#) And all these tangencies get totaled. Fragments of invasive crops bearing Nothing besides fruit aesthetique. A verde vomit smoothie summed of Vectors the shape and size of grass blades. (#) Pointed forward, ever forward, Like the grille of a gas gorger. Autos and mowers alike decomped Into shifters, wheels, tailights, manifolds. Reconstitution leaves much desired (#) In the way of order and coherence. Asphalt shingles, vinyl and aluminum siding, Concrete patios all ground to dust. Ash to ash, all the muddled drear And character blendered into bottles. (#) What derives and differentiates These exterior places, what stokes The fireball eye, what taunts the tongue Of all these folks inside their furnaces, Must be more than muffled mysticism.

[titustheandroid]

Me Ars Poetica en Revision

It is a long task, one which requires You and the world around you To be hard at the plow for more minutes Than you might ever prefer. But the push The push, the push you pursue That one break in the soil is profound. It is beauty in ways you cannot Confound with the strange logic Found in language.