Ahead of the curb


Trying to align real from skirting,


and the inner guy fright wakes with gasping, ventriloquized later in

shades of an ego-serving past,  

the epoch’s ostension pre-determine

turns on a dime, and counter-clockwise extinguishes

reckoning in the future.  


Better to metaphysic by worldly time dignity, not boyish recurrences—  

Dugin and Rosenszweig trade glances.  


Assert only mites and midges, pin them inside a glasswork of nameworks,

stripped bare of pattern,  

save the most twee irony and potting articulandings of nature.  


Yes, the skeleton that ebbs time’s neap by probables—  

asks, “where is the hole?"

for catechetic sake  

will only open

be for a moment, but lengthened in suck to warn.


The hole has already yawned to course

its certain par-dox, 

its swallowing (of) death.

(Isaiah 25:8)




--Douglas Blake Olds


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