Expediency of the Moment

I’m not sure if I prefer pens that click
or those that twist. They have to be black, though.
That’s certain. And I don’t mean just the ink;
I mean the shell, too. It’s about the formal
control that rises off the page in jet
black hands massaging off-white college-ruled
shoulders, the remnant of strong trees, or cups
recycled and recycled until dust.
It’s all about the mastery of earth,
An endless squeeze and chop of every fruit
produced in buzzing factories or hives -
expediency of the moment reigns.
And that’s why I like black: because it’s now.
It’s hip. It’s endless in its emptiness;
It’s swollen with a weight apart from words.
So then, in light of that massaging conceit,
the twisting pens appear much better made,
since, like a rising sun or emerging infant,
their tips appear with a compacted brilliance
revolving in some purpose kept in check:
to pierce, not just the paper, but the mind.
(It looks, though, that my desk holds only pencils…)

Expediency of the Moment

candidenuts

Little Rock, United States

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