The mind of man expands its
eager grasp,
To chart the heavens and the
depths below,
Unlocking wonders from the
iron clasp,
Of centuries that vanished long
ago.
A monstrous birth, a star that
burns too bright,
The sudden flood that reaped
the valley clean-
All signs of wonder in the
shifting light,
The strangest omens that the
world has seen.
The page is turned, the ink is
dark and bold,
A vast creation waking from its
sleep,
As great, portentous stories are
resold,
And secrets rise from out the
quiet deep.
The world grows larger than it
was before,
With boundaries that stretch
beyond the eye,
A great abundance knocks
upon the door,
Beneath a vast and unpredictable
sky.
Black or White
a common soul
Beneath the surface
of hate resold
Uncolored ground
that buries deep
A shared endowment
— to haunt our sleep
(Dreamsleep: August, 2026)
The surgery
The surgeries were situated in an industrial estate
in an imposing building telling of elitist power
My operating room, painted gray and white, was ready
At ten fifteen, when I was wheeled in, who was
not allowed to talk to customers who came to have
Their illness was removed in exchange for a better life
Here, the patient was less important than the illness
They put me face down into a chamber with a screen
so that I could witness my surgery
Invisible hands cutting into my flesh to they reached
the bones that were to be linked together with a metal
clips; blood had been cleared
At the precise moment when the bones were linked
The screen went blurry, to stop the opposition to
See the method used, a system that could be resold
to other industrial surgeries
After 3 days to recuperate, I was told to leave that
caused concern as I had to arrange for someone to
Take me home, as the surgery that had brought me
They were not responsible for my leaving
Industrial surgery is not interested in the patient
but purely in the method used
Press briefing sonnet
A journalist walked into an embassy
where he was killed, stripped naked, and
liquified washed into the sea that is
inviting at that time of the year
The one who gave the order is a dear guest
in the White House
In a city where thousands of homeless
People live in a painting by Gustave Klimt
was sold for millions, art made into
commodity, packed away for no one to
See before it is resold
Do not let death be a hiding place for thieves,
Their mansions glimmer,their hands still foul of gold-
We want the money back, the people grieve.
They steal from the hungry,spin deceitful weaves,
Made poverty a product easily sold-
Do not let death be a hiding place for thieves.
Each tender lost,another dream bereaves,
A nation's trust auctioned,betrayed,resold-
We want the money back,the people grieve
The tombstone shines but cannot reprieve,
The curses of the poor,the stories untold-
Do not let death be a hiding place for thieves.
Let justice dig through soil and broken eaves,
Expose the empires' corruption controlled-
We want the money back,the people grieve
No grave absolves,no legacy deceives-
Return what you plundered,return what you stole!
Do not let death be a hiding place for thieves-
We want the money back,the people grieve
Spring cleaning comes and I seek to expunge from every counter and corner
All clutter and dried rose that serves no purpose
Knickknacks and little trinkets all go in the basket.
To be given to those who have lesser or resold or simple lost forever
There it sits on the mantle, an object grotesquely elephantine
Rounded edges so it fits into no corners
Claiming center stage, grossly out of place
Into the basket it goes leaving only a rim of dust in its absence
Spring cleaning is over, expunged from every counter and corner-
-all clutter or dried rose that serves no purpose
Knickknacks and little trinkets all go in the basket
The basket goes to the salvation army down the street
I sit and relax after a long day
Coffee in my hand, eyes fixed on the clean mantle
There it sits on the mantle, the object grotesquely elephantine
rounded edges so it fits in no corners
Claiming its place in the center
Of no value but it still remains
Like the one who gave it
My tchotchke
Where are the magpies?
Where the ruined cathedrals
where are the birds
that once made their homes
in the hollow heads of saints?
Here all dwell in the new or the old
the days between are bulldozed,
the waste rubble resold.
Crowds seek out boarded-up exits
other crowds construct entrances
for new homes
that when assembled resemble all other's.
I need a hill to howl upon.
The land is flat, even the water is flat.
Mountains are small or not at all.
Yet there are midnight Magpies,
there are crows cawing in woodland churches.
Mythical back-eyed catbirds roam
from home to home. Many places are
not condemned to the newfangled
and yet still unoriginal.
Some magpie nests and appear almost near,
just under the eaves of a middling nowhere.
he recognized our logo
and it made me proud,
even here where they
like it simple
and less complicated they see
what we do and recognize our
product as best.
trying to offer more
for less and giving people
something that's
worth having
and something that can
be reliable
from every point of view.
the reason I came here
was to
support efforts for a
clothes and food drive
we are offering those
who patronize us a
hands up. we are collecting
used old clothes
no matter the condition
we are making blankets
stitching holes
restyling wore materials and creating
clothing to be resold at low prices
and custom quilts and blankets for people
who need them.
some will be sold some will be given as charity.
food drives aren't for the extremely poor
these items are discounted for quick sales
and the poor and poorer patrons of the area
can take advantage of
discount prices, and this will be done without
creating an image to where
the poor will be exploited and villainized.
Mangled swollen skins arrive
bleeding bitter dark prayers;
loathsome chants of naysayers
detached dreams dying alive
Cross wrath borders seething gold
seek anchor, desert heat fumes
disgusted skeletal tombs
foreign bloodline wealth resold
Fortune steps circling schools
bouncing life, twirling fair hair
speaking foreign tongues of flair
bright dreamers stunned by dark rules
Come seek lands built on distrust
Come expecting hued disgust
Seek out peace, as we all must
Seek justice from dawn to dusk.
The Virgin Maid of Orleans, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s La Pucelle
To Robert Caze*
Even as the blaze crackled around the stake’s pyre,
Joan was deafened by the clergy’s brutal chanting,
Harsh eyes with hate from all the windows demeaning,
She felt her flesh quiver and her soul budge on fire.
And like lambs that resold to the butcher expire
The shepherd roamed with country airs whistling
She reflected in earnest on things and being
And met her lord who ungrateful did conspire.
« It’s wrong, gentle Bastard, sweet Charles*, good Xaintrailles,
To let the English take charge of her funeral
She who forced them to abandon the siege of Orleans. »
And as for Lorraine, the very thought of that injury,
While death clasped in its arms the non-believers,
Weary ! She cried out just as another creature formerly.
• Acc. to Yves-Alain Favre, a journalist (1853-1886), slain in a duel.
• Charles the VII, crowned King at Rheims on July 17, 1429, with the help of Joan of Arc who was then aged 15. It was thought Charles VII may not have been the son of his father, Charles VI, owing to an extra-marital affaire with a Bavarian monarch.
• © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
WHERE HAVE ALL THE OLD DIAPHRAGMS GONE
THEY ONCE WERE THE THING
IN THEIR FAUX PEARL CASE
LIKE A JACK IN THE BOX
WHEN THEY POP OPEN IN SPACE
HAVE THEY BEEN BURNED OUT FROM USE
OR HAVE THEY JUST DISAPPEARED
WITHOUT ANY TRACE
BECAUSE OF THE PILL
WHICH IS MUCH EASIER TO FACE
OR HAVE THEY BEEN BURIED IN THE GROUND
WITH THEIR LOVED ONES OF OLD
BECAUSE THERE IS ONE THING FOR SURE
THERE IS NO MARKET FOR THEM
AND
THEY ARE NEVER RESOLD
OR HAVE THE FEW REMAINING ONES FOUND
BEEN PRESERVED IN MUSEUMS
ALONG WITH ANTIQUATED TORTURE AND
WAR MACHINES
ALL OBSOLETE MEMORABILIA
AND REMINDERS OF A CULTURE PAST
THAT WILL NEVER RETURN-
FOR TODAY CULTURES CHANGE FAST
AND THINGS BORN OF TECHNOLOGY
NEVER OUTLAST
GOODBYE THE NINETEEN SEVENTIES
GOODBYE FLOWER POWER
GOODBYE INNOCENCE
GOODBYE PAST CULTURE AND TECHNOLOGY
AND
GOODBYE COLUMBUS
This is the tempature
of what we live like today
feeling the distcomf
ort
and feeling the pain
oh I feel so strange
rearrange the letters
and believe in faith
live life to others
my hand is hurting
my head is burning
red and emplaned
without the power
old cold and resold
to an upscale lady
she’s so crazy
dazed amazing
to an upscale lady
she’s so lazy
annoyed crazy
dazed and amazed
phased crazed
raised to the master
confused
well what’s look happenvulcans
and preachers taught by all the teachers
ears so wide
theyyy do not hear us
we maintain the eruption
pyramid then
leaves and receded
in a cavern
of perception
sign the fare lady
and leave time for major interruption
counterfeit production
set the basic election
to the peaches another day
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