The Viscous Light
Every new day
is so open
that no epithets measure up;
no roads lead away,
when actual & presumed
– without blinking –
rip apart habitual patterns
like badly knitted woolens,
and no hours answer back
in the needle-stung sun haze;
the viscous light bleeding out of time
like resin from the old pine in the horse pasture;
all years brooding in their Gödel-hideaways,
the centuries molting in the hallucinogel hollows
when white faces whiten
in the backlight of standard candles,
and black faces blacken
in the undertow of dark energy
when π breaks the circle
and the periodic table creaks
at the joints;
when Shakespeare takes his place
in Stuck Inside of Mobile
with the Memphis Blues Again
and my bare feet fall silent
far out in feldmanic fields of
Children of the Corn
The ships erode the seas of air
and the seas of air close behind them
like tightly held secrets
The airships descend heavy-bellied
in absolute numbers
toward the runways,
and the invisible vortices of the air
spiral four-dimensionally
behind them
like hissing snakes
The voice is rainy when I tell it,
but the story is a cracked brake-shoe
in the line breaks
It is said that death is a smooth cup of coffee
at the end of the kitchen table,
but out in the world
heavy industry vibrates
like aging drones
In a wider perspective
ebola is trying to level the conditions
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-05-22 at 10:25
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