Ennui of the Gods


The charge is gone.

No one rises to greet me.

I yak enthusiastically as ever

but my ebullience is met with glass eyes

and locked hearts.


What happened?

The juice stopped running.

The aura vanished leaving

the starkness of pot holes

and the poor workmanship of

depressed hands, even the clouds

seem more like science than art.

Nary a dream among the droplets.


But I cannot thrive on facts,

on the world as told by a

mono-toned larynx, or an armadillo

with a desk job.


I will squeeze the colors out of the tubes. 

Write my name on your catatonic eyelids.

Shove you into a lake of Chianti . 

Find you shoes made out of the breath of lost lovers. 

Let the spark jump the gap and stretch out your life

to the infinities that you wonít believe in. 

They, the everlasting, donít care about

your micronic troubles and your hovels of thought.


Swing in the trees of your being! 

Shout your DNA like Morse code

until your throat vaporizes into

the pure intention of a scream of isness. 

Or die into the ignominy of it all.


They, the demons, will carefully

teach us not to care.  And the devil will

lunch on each succulent soul

knowing he has conquered a god. 

One who simply forgot her own name.



Abbie Conant

July 25, 2012

Taos , NM