A handsome man descends
in a pillar of light,
a tube of clarity, of crystal
through world wars and water
through sheer atmosphere
down tiers of stories
into a well-lit
dungeon
with a tiled floor
into inner space,
the depths within,
incarceration,
and reaches into air
into space out there
into gravity that isn't anywhere
and finds floating
all about him
above, below, around him
artifacts,
nuts and bolts, he says,
what's engineered,
what's sleek and clean,
what's steel and plasticized,
what's nimble to the fingers,
and he is ostracized
by perfection
and oscillation
and banality
and sharp, crisp arms,
sleight of hand
but what he says is trite,
for triteness is like a blanket
of artificial light;
and POWER
is his pastime
his villainy entire
what he sells
is hell
on wheels
and cosmic deals
and liturgies
of idiosyncrasy.
He smirks,
he shirks,
he pushes the button
THE DEVIL,
he insists,
IS IN THE DETAILS
YES
THERE'S METHOD
TO MY MADNESS
Oh, yes,
there's madness
in his methods,
isn't there?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem