Upper Stratum

Tinder and ash.
On top of shoes, it slides and whisks off into
the corridor-darkness. Fallen masters march these
labyrinth halls, hands pocketed, hollow mirth.
Outside the window, we all press against the glass.
Though perhaps now we can see, we're still trampling down
an overused lawn riddled with groundhogs and chimps,
all for the best view. We want to see, as we've heard it fabled,
the deterioration of the greatest minds.
Could we, perhaps, collect cinders and place their synapses in line again?
Can the embers reflare the fire, can we rebirth a Renaissance?
No, whizzing darts corrupt the lasting remains and,
head cradled in hands, a lipless lullaby, they begin to understand.

Smash the vases.
Dust to dust.

For xanthan:


Remnants of Auschwitz writers? I wonder. Some in-line suggestions:

Tinder and ash.
On top of shoes, it ["it"? Ash? Clarify, please] slides (and whisks off) into
(the )corridor-darkness. Fallen masters [ghosts? I'm interested to know] march these
labyrinth[ine] halls, hands pocketed, hollow[ed] mirth.
Outside the window, we (all )press against the glass.
Though perhaps (now )we (can )see, we're still trampling (down)
an overused lawn riddled with groundhogs and chimps ["chimps"? Where the hell...?](,)
(all )for the best view. We want to (see)[observe], as we've heard it fabled,
the deterioration of the greatest minds.
Could we(, perhaps,) collect cinders and place their synapses in line again?
Can the embers re(flare)[ignite] the fir[es], can we rebirth a Renaissance? [Interesting question--rebirth rebirth?]
No, whizzing darts corrupt the last(ing) remains[,] and(,)
head cradled in hands, a lipless lullaby, they begin to understand.

Smash the vases.
Dust to dust.

Most interesting: the second and tenth lines resolutely refuse to clarify anything from the first. The way to go. I like all the frustrated expectations that surely others will hate. Let them.


All the best,
Brad