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Three Poems


Candace Kaucher

EXISTENTIAL EPIPSYCHIDION

      In many mortal forms I sought
      The shadow of that idol of my thought
      --Shelly

Fumbling through life's completeness
as far as the mind forms
around idea without a clue,
I hit the highway running
but lacked perspicaciousness enough
to connect with the ordinary
where I sought sanctuary in you,
got let out like iron freed,
no cold solidity running interference

between my A and your B.
Two closeted souls separate together
now released to sift through
the sieve innumerable oceans,
we filter out atoms of ourselves
in ready for more universal constructions.

Silhouettes and shadows cast,
we move beyond emotion.
We vie for emergent status crawling
through ruptures in the banal dusk
of blanketing virtual reality charged
to free up our ineffable
things from the "stuff"
of stuff where we were
like interlinked polymers,
much too ubiquitous
to come to a head

here
where I want you
before all is lost
to uncertain future inexhaustibly
unveiling your quiet beautiful
radiantly poised on the summit
of change to fall immortalized
in history which is either both
impermanence or stasis,
ceaselessly the same
enticement to reach for a moment
crystallizing, breaking clear
even as it fades. Love is the aim.
Its dream is the over arching entity
where the soul of my forest is saved.

If thought works such synthesis
it's glue as I remember
Vivaldi plays to a time
and place that he still
moves in your immediate
vicinity until it translates out
with more sweeping implications
sowing empirical existence
for no particular reason.

Alchemical longing at the core
of person pulsed eternity
keeps transforming trade.

Today power.

Tomorrow quality.

And then, they rearrange.




Still Life

Thoroughfare rushes by oblivious people
who sit still exactly where
gravity dumped them, more or less.
History has no conscience otherwise
it would quit repeating us.




Swallowed Opinions but Good Ones

The kitchens churn out the faces of little boys
who don’t know they’re somebody’s echo
or a milkshake in a monk’s hammock,
a sperm with a religious sealing on it.
They’re whistling babies in their dragnet booties
as all the dregs come seeding up from the mantra side of town,
butt heads on the microchip playing field.
The macrocosmic essay is out of focus too, for a larger reason,
since there is no place for me to set my lunchbox.

New meaning seems to be cropping up everywhere
like a gadfly on a garbage scow.
It’s a black hole bulimic on a diet of emptiness
with just the demon sided page flapping in
an unfettered step to the next day’s affairs,
a sad box of carnivals accustomed to shining
brightly in the lap of commodity.

Without such pleasantry of the maniacs
what kind of sanity would you call this
truncated atrophied underworld dream dimension chaff
from the legs of love’s patrons pealing
in the soundless project:
a conversion table calibrated to recoup
any variance between decision
and the pitiful parody of it.

But like all sad cops of the ministry
he has to learn to kiss the stone contrived ambiguity
until absence or negation read like a label
of quality merchandise from a name brand store
only in a galaxy you never heard of.

It even wants to your lover