Tom Beckett
Image of
A torso,
An environment,
Something made
Of unfoldings,
Somebody going
To a movie
Or a rectangle
(wrecked angle),
Our better angles,
Unrecorded saxophones,
The story
Of words remade,
A bed
Of oysters,
Grace notes
Shyly colored
Would have been
Tumult otherwise,
Concentration
Rescued by
A couplet
Or an
Accumulation of examples,
It is
A strange space
Not synonymous
With variation
Or insomnia,
Accusations relive
Fixations, elaborate
Simmering daydreams,
Obsession is
An engine
Of beauty,
Memories are
Embodiments of dreams,
Grids and things,
Emblems, edges,
Voyages and cracks,
In touch with
The thickness of experience,
Quickly emptying depths
Through a screen,
Appearances being
What they seam,
Lapsing objects
Surrounded by
Feedback systems’
Incessant mirror effects,
Shadows resist nothing,
Awkward position
(Poetics)
Of being entered
(Broken into)
Like a house
Where the furniture’s
Been rearranged,
Somebody goes
To another place
Does something else,
Writes something down,
Obsession is an engine
Of repetition,
Memories are
Mutating stencils,
Image of
Image of
Image of
Image of
Fading thing
Fading further,
Butterfly fluttering
Above somebody,
Somebody who,
Somebody who,
Would have,
Could have,
Should have,
Lyrically speaking, stopped.
Tom Beckett lives, writes and will likely die in Kent, Ohio.
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Image of
A torso,
An environment,
Something made
Of unfoldings,
Somebody going
To a movie
Or a rectangle
(wrecked angle),
Our better angles,
Unrecorded saxophones,
The story
Of words remade,
A bed
Of oysters,
Grace notes
Shyly colored
Would have been
Tumult otherwise,
Concentration
Rescued by
A couplet
Or an
Accumulation of examples,
It is
A strange space
Not synonymous
With variation
Or insomnia,
Accusations relive
Fixations, elaborate
Simmering daydreams,
Obsession is
An engine
Of beauty,
Memories are
Embodiments of dreams,
Grids and things,
Emblems, edges,
Voyages and cracks,
In touch with
The thickness of experience,
Quickly emptying depths
Through a screen,
Appearances being
What they seam,
Lapsing objects
Surrounded by
Feedback systems’
Incessant mirror effects,
Shadows resist nothing,
Awkward position
(Poetics)
Of being entered
(Broken into)
Like a house
Where the furniture’s
Been rearranged,
Somebody goes
To another place
Does something else,
Writes something down,
Obsession is an engine
Of repetition,
Memories are
Mutating stencils,
Image of
Image of
Image of
Image of
Fading thing
Fading further,
Butterfly fluttering
Above somebody,
Somebody who,
Somebody who,
Would have,
Could have,
Should have,
Lyrically speaking, stopped.
Tom Beckett lives, writes and will likely die in Kent, Ohio.
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