.

the ideal game


is it one with a great deal of movement,
no precise rules, pink flamingos for mallets
and hedgehogs for balls, played-out on two
tables at once, the multiplication table and
the dinner table like sky and earth with no
hypotheses for loss or gain, just ifs and
contra-dictions that link the once-and-for-all
to each throw, and all time (as if it is) infinitely
subdivisible?


like children playing hide and seek,
do writers write for the quiet pleasure
of being found, of playing-to-play for
the curious meniscus-tension that some
words hold when they swell the page
with provocation, like wailing dogs
deep in the night, the compelling
promise of something distant and
all things unattainable, a quality
that nonetheless keeps one listening
for randomly-collected circumstances
that might fall into place to unleash
a series of events in thinkable time
that spills texture into an elusively
remote chance of reson-ah!-nce,
the kind that comes from viewing
the world as a work of art?

treading old ground like a water wheel
while knowing that depth lacks surface
but even so, hiding in it as if to be
found ...



or

the ideal game




is it


one that reveals
alot of moves,
no precise rules
mute swans for
mallets and
groundhogs for
balls rolled-out in
two fables at once,
multiplication and
dinner tables, relentless
sky and plated earth
plus vague hypotheses
for loss or gain or
the space inbetween
ifs and contra-dictions,
the once-and-for-all
of a single throw that
meets the fall of each
infinitely-subdivisible
time and scrawl

?



or


like hide 'n seek,
do writers write
to chase the joy
of being found,
to hear the meniscus-ed
tension some words
bear, that swell a place
with provocation like
wailing dogs deep in
the dark, this flare of
compelling promises
from far away while
trapped inside a quality
of flight that tunes the air
to happenstance and
glistens script as if
to pace a page in
unrelenting strokes
of circumstantial nets
and textures laced with
every next-elusive shot
at reson-ah!-nce,
the kind that comes
from seeing worlds
as works of art

?



perhaps


it means to
retread ground,
to know that depth lacks
surface and even so,
to hide in words as if
to be found

?

"I know of a Greek labyrinth which is
a single straight line ... The next time
I kill you ... I promise you the labyrinth
made of the single straight line which is
invisible and everlasting."
(Jorges Luis Borges)

"I know of a Greek labyrinth which is
a single straight line ... The next time
I kill you ... I promise you the labyrinth
made of the single straight line which is
invisible and everlasting."
(Jorges Luis Borges)