Archimedean Aporia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 27, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 27, 2018



I remember God teaching me poetry

unorthodox pedagogy.

I remember God showing me love

then I slipped into a man.

I remember God giving me purpose

Sisyphus shook his head.

I remember God giving me a hand-shake

rough psalms.


You’ve done that 3.14159265359 times now, pointing in every direction. Can we ever get you down from up There? Those verdant qualities qua quantity in the field we try to remember.


I address death with euphemisms;

the grim reaper’s a child,


They put a metal

door between wooden frames.

What was the point of that?


I’ve never seen a compass

spin so fast.

I want to acknowledge

those hot hands thrashing

against a reinforced plane.

My own, they join.


Out of necessity, we only returned twenty-seven times. You have to remember that we weren’t always there; this town preceded our visit. Did God have to die for his own sins?


A cursory glance to where the door

met Nature, hot rays, summer plays.

Skin on skin, on skin, on


I would’ve gone again but

I feel bad at the pump.


Infatuation isn’t a

necessity anymore, but we

do it all the same.

She used to hold my

hand when we did it,

some summer-hired steer.


Should we bother shoring? No signifier ever encompassed even a cup of soup. Speak straight! Alas, it was God who breathed in us Logos, but we spun, and struggle to keep it down. 


My tradition sacrificed

for quasi-supremacy

in a town that hates being

so cold.

The Sun used to circle the Earth.

Why, Galileo, did you move it?


Slide it in me,

but only slowly,

if not slowly,

them ram it

right into the

sun-bleached bone.


Is Heaven just the dissolution of self? Remarkable price to pay for eternity – that in losing oneself, no one gains everything. God could’ve included a gift receipt at the very least.


Where did

gravity go? Away.

Curvature at

the feet of


falling back.


Can’t very well

transcend without

A name.

Choking on


never said.


There’s this lonely city, strewn with your stories, long enough to welcome spirits and ghosts who have rundown their runtimes. We welcome all sorts, checkout’s at 11:00 Amen.

© Copyright 2020 Matthew D. Hay (Tangible Word). All rights reserved.

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