[Newspoetry] SELECTION FOR OCTOBER 16, 2002

[Donald L Emerick]

Dawning in The Age of Nefarious --
for a goddabe of an understanding...

If being right were thrilling to me,
then I'd think that of me as thrilling writer,
or even a thrilling civil righter of wrongs,
but, the simple fact that an evil happens
just so, which is all so unjustly just also,
as I might have expected it to happen,
does not persuade me that I am right
and does no thrill to me -- none at all --
to be so entrapped in an evil's thrall,
paralyzed by fear, rooted in my place,
rooted in evil and not rooting it out,
though I never root for its root beer.

I would count my evil writings as thrilling
were they nothing but the logic of fear itself,
naked dreams of lying too much in bed,
covered over in wet blankets of wet dreams
that would not and could not be come true,
because they were only mere phantasms
of the long night that has no dawn broken
around its crowing head whose crying mouth,
in mealy moans for its injured imagination,
weeps its seep in dreams as reflections,
of a world gone mad to sense its time
as some now somehow rules out then --
a chronic logic of impetus from events
and no contrary logic of right and wrong --
in one that is only close to true and false,
as if, by its successive approximations,
all were in aspirations we need to breathe,
a margin in which notes may be written
tersely and briefly about a body of text.

I refer to my newsletter dated to 5/1/02,
itself referencing some prior self-writings
of mine, on a tragedy of "breaking news",
why I am "Defining news before it breaks",
such as my languid lament "Imperial News"
against regime change words, that I unsay
in words favoring some regime design,
for design requires us to think of ends,
while regime change lets any end rule,
lets no rule of its own end, by treachery;
a treason of words betrays us thinking,
as it abridges our duty to reason rightly,
closes the wider gap in engulfed states
of awareness, to put us back to sleep,
as knack of knocking us out of sense,
not of knocking some sense into us,
for I doubt that their kind of knocking
opens any doors of equal opportunities,
but opens the doors of a cruel choice,
one of force for forced circumstances,
as a manipulative logic of events plays
its strongest hand by dealing false cards:
it stacks bedeviling decks against us.

You have to be the honest dealer --
get an unmarked, unstacked deck,
full of random cards, to be honest --
to face the impersonal hand of time,
in the logic of events, and never come
to showdown at sundown or high noon,
or at dawn breaking too early, too soon,
doubling back to back, doubling up
the root of margins in a sleeping bed,
never waking to find it unjust justly so.

Well, I was going to say something
but I have only made noise instead
though it sounds something like
an understanding, wise in itself,
whys wizen to acceptable answers,
that are listening once against once,
to hear slaying bellums in a snow,
and, so, I thank the noise makers
for letting me listen, my heart all aglow;
as I say loudly a thanks for listening,
thanks-a-giving for thinks-as-listening
to my Macy Day circumcision paradings
paradigming their fool parasoulfishiness,
trying not to take from me too seriously
what is way too serious to take away,
a hope to hold onto unbelief in myself,
and thus to laugh at my imperfection,
as already being no better than it is
by always being better than its nose
for nosey news, for being led around
by the noose through its own nose.

These words will have to suffice
for a sublime suffix of subliminal
sub-eliminations in daily diary-rhea.
(You see how childish I aim to be
by how I try to play with my words
as if they were only some blocks
to my toyish misunderstandings.)
Donald L Emerick
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