As the United States prepares for another four years of corruption, indecency, and utter chaos, I was reminded of my sonnet Χαος (below) which appears in my fifth collection, Pointing Home.
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| Never forget January 6, 2021 |
Chaos
Chaos speaks a language of its own—
a lexicon of howl, hue and cry;
a dialect that contradicts the lie
of rationality. Its bone-on-bone
inflection duplicates the wordless moan,
and parses the wild syllable of why.
It deconstructs all goodness from good-bye
with syllabaries rigorous as stone.
The idiom of Chaos can translate
with ease the accent of a South Atlantic
gale, the timbre of a red-tailed hawk
before the kill. It will not mitigate—
sprung from the pen’s sweet ordered lines—the frantic,
bounding pulse. Declining double-talk
and claptrap, Chaos gives it to us straight.
