Friday, April 11, 2014

Joel Weishaus


Your Name, This Net
for Alan Sondheim


Traced against the empty, traced through the header, it's a waste of the essence, of the body of canons.

Everywhere is artificial,
a
waste of depth,
nothing
works in depth.

Wrap, don't desire (Spinoza). Quantum tunnels are ghosts crossing over to the Other.

Outside my window, nothing is named.
I
look through and know there
were
lovers in those ashes,
traced in memories that hold the door open.

I cry over the threshold, "It’s all empty!"
Dark angels fly past wrapped in bodies of glass.

Look for your name in the depth,
in
the darkness, in the rapture
of
nothingness.

-Joel Weishaus


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