I am an addict.
I guess that’s the first step.
Every night is the same.
The inspired sight of morning,
Evanescing against the invitation
To glut on pixeled escape.
Immaterial hours withdrawn,
exhausting a blind account,
Yielding a shiftless, fallow legacy.
Will I die a bankrupt bystander,
A receptacle of advertisements?
No!
I rage against that technicolor light!
Collecting not finales watched
But investing in finales I write.
T. Weeks
(Inspired by “Thou Reader”)
In lonely soliloquy, I am but a node,
Observing, interpreting, outputting,
A single neuron firing into oblivion.
You, stranger, are another node,
Observing, interpreting, outputting,
A single neuron firing into oblivion.
Linked in colloquy we are a network,
Observing, interpreting, outputting,
The brain comprehending the oblivion.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “To You”)
I saw one who looked casually back,
Without really stopping, face hidden,
Before their phantom turned beyond,
Leaving only the vacuous mystery.
Thank you to the one turning beyond,
For what greater invitation have I
Than an unanswered question?
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Poets to Come”)
That’s great for you, master poet,
Turning phrase on the potters wheel,
To declare your book’s greatness,
An orphaned gem from the muse.
I won’t dicker down your leaves,
Or deny the carat or the fine cut,
For we may be companions now
On your long completed journey.
Your map has been uncovered,
The vein that yields such treasure,
Beyond a vault wrought in credo
Lies but a leaf, a pen, and a mirror.
And now they’re mine.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Shut Not Your Doors”)
My heart is often shared
by most jealous loves.
Unwilling roommates,
cellmates in sequence.
The chase, all fury and fun,
the dream, aloof and tidy.
Alas when I find one
I find I miss the other.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “Still Though the One I Sing”)
All you who are besieged,
Beleaguered, or beset,
Ostracized, offended,
Or out of time,
Dumped on, distanced,
Or down on your luck,
Forlorn, friendless,
Or a failure,
I offer you this relief:
I pooped my pants today.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “What Place Is Besieged?”)
Is that singing?
You’re right,
I hear it too.
What the hell?
Is it singing?
It must be.
It’s louder now.
A chorus of solos.
Not all happy,
Not all sad,
Each their part,
In chaotic refrain.
Must it harmonize?
Do I fix it?
Just listen.
I love it.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “I Hear America Singing”)
A worn and worried path,
Twin ends nearly the same,
Strobing Vegas anticipation.
Both scenes excited in fear.
Twixt the lights, the dark,
Where travelers go to stop.
Champion visions waning
Extinguished in confidence.
-T. Weeks
(A response to “The Ship Starting”)
Prehistoric river flows no more.
Its rolling rapids have departed
In disrupted periodicity skyward.
The canyon and the valley,
Majestic carcass of the cascade,
Carve the horizon, shrine for eons.
Elsewhere portentous clouds pile,
A hungry stone cutting tempest.
-T. Weeks
(Inspired by “Savantism”)
To write with such delicate sway,
Raining arhythmically on the roof,
Percussing methodic invitations
To come out, to splash, to explore.
A bounty I place on the imperturbe,
Folding metaphors to reveal it, almost.
Maybe you will find in these words
The treasure I sought in writing them.
T. Weeks
(A response to “Me Imperturbe”)
Life Immense 