The Frag of Olio, image by Daniel Y. Harris
a selection from Fragmented Olio
Here I begin toward
I am never hemmed--
the bedside of this room’s
elastic observation and
boredom observes me
in the constant unfastening of
this moment’s look toward tomorrow’s
Self, or the portrait of my youth hanging within the blank wall decorated by light
Each corner: body brok
avalanche of music with
tone as rhythm as
totality of reason
speech of my hearing
becomes speckled belonging and
I’ve a hanker to adhere
to what my father wrote into my early
aesthetics and altruistic harmony of hands:
-ing is fenceless music unless the ear focuses
later, plagiarizing through its memory of intrinsic
sustained ignition of probable articulation
and to my west a
the vanish of its
Three versions of disposition
I was told to organize all the truths.
My hands, empty shelves.
My eyes, a needed closure
contained achromatic shapes,
reservoirs of decapitated miracles.
Music wore day
as does the body holed equivalents. I cannot hear
among noon’s loudest warmth.