Death by Triteness

Death by Triteness

This house of representatives, 

suspended in the filmy thick

of everyday mid-morning, holds
white-knuckled to its stagnancy.

Grown putrid with routine, a white
clay discuss masquerading as
a plate— a sprouting thrust

of metal-work, that given time 

and space for repetition, has come

to represent a breakfast fork— 

and standing like the minute-hand

beside an aromatic cylinder 

of steaming clay, one has to ask: 

‘Is this the world as it is

or as we’ve named and parceled it?’

A pressing question, surely, but one 

quite difficult in answering

with certainty, as it is blood

and dust that masquerades as man
that plays the role of world-definer.