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Still Life



In the anarchic cloister,
the forever endeavor

to feel things differently
or to feel different things.

All sacrifice is tainted,
all offerings spoiled

in the striving toward relevance
of the initially incidental.

We continue wobbling
under illusions of stability,

deceived by the serendipity
of neutral intention,

our difference-detectors'
tendency to err,

progress missed
in silly stillness.

A convocation, a cavalcade,
responsibilities compromised by desire,

ethics redacted
from documented relations,

hot-and-bothered by ins and outs,
inevitable ironies, self-fulfilling ironies,

erratic eroticism
using the similar to illuminate the different,

rejecting names, basking in
the immediacy of presence.

It's still life.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.