A splash with Locke
and reason ripples out, washing
a century hence on the far shore that’s art.
Some dwellers there re-see
the received; find themselves
shucking the received.
A century on:
Abstraction a smash;
verse’s “first heave” immensely more
than holding its own.
Dissonance? Don’t ask.
All understandable. Hadn’t
eyes been abstracting for ages? Hadn’t there been
unmetered speech for eons? Whereas
Schoenberg (like a certain other seer)
was conceiving a New Man.
Which leaves us
In something like the air:
a realm aswirl above
the world it’s an exhalation of.
A finitude, this—
in what we parse as stages,
to a black beyond (where Cage is)—
yet inly limitless.
to the wealth of weather there;
to the way the elements
resulting in an ever-
as when weather mass
collides with weather mass
and something frontal thunders up, like jazz.
Nor is that all
to these skies being
For the changing world below them
continues to bestow them
We’re changing too (a morphing owing more
to helpings of technology
than hits of ideology).
Where we are is where we’ve always been:
in a never-having-been.
(If one that churns eternally within
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