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The Paradoxical Demise of Calculus; -
by Craig Turnwall
helped by fear
across this every-night tonight, day into another, patchwork quilt
work week, of simply making due to weekend, fireflies and candles,
mind you all the simple ideas, all the purest joys we want to crave so it'll all
leave us be, leave us alone, without dark, cold nights bent on
our leaky windows, who only try their best, like we struggle
breath spent and tatter, this race for paychecks and counting pennies,
small apartment walls with burnt out bulbs like exploded star fragments
quivered on antiquity mended into memories of illuminated death's grand schemes,
no reprieve for the universe, our gravity at center pulling forever inward, toward
the paradoxical demise of calculus, this is a whole afterlife of turmoil,
and all the pieces, coursed in belts which hold up work pants
mold to achy bodies, broken souls in broken hours when angels themselves are yet asleep, this every-night there is still redemption in face of meandering stillness,
a little supper for the heart and a little time to forget the morning to come
against will of sleepless dreams spun wildly, if there were collisions of perfection
nearer to these guillotines, we might look up with eyes into infinity, but these time-clocks we punch in shifts parading voices, peopled pleased in well contentment bled indentured hours, these are not the true building blocks of choices, ones made in every-night with star mattered skies,
frail lives we hold dear on thin strings, thinnest sheet of ice which might fracture over fathoms of naked plummet, the air is warming and the water is ebb and flow, some nights we drink, some we sleep, some are hallowed...but an every-night is a passion for a rusty throat; you spoke
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Craig Turnwall
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