The first picture, sort of a surreal abacus, "Of The Abacus". The second picture, even more surreal, "Concave Abacus". And the third picture, dealing in abaci only in its name, "Haphazard Abacus".
Via Impure Calligraphy
-------------------------
Sequences of cursive cusps radiate their rotation
Until they too are elongated, until they also
Become such parallelism and parallax, become again
The causality of bizarre truth invoked by certainty.
And the topology, the tautology, it whispers of
Its shapelessness; it scrawls the simple image
Of our amorphous souls upon mismatched cardioids.
And all the scribbles and squiggles are rectified,
For they remain only time and equation, remain
Only implicit lines once straight. But now
Such edges are diagonal, are curved askew.
But now the cursive cusps radiate, thus flowing,
Thus they linger in their abstraction, in this abacus,
This abacus of the prism, this abacus drawn of its
Own dimensions perceived via impure calligraphy.
===========
A Misshapen Ellipsoid
-----------------------------
In this divided integer, within that
Numerical set of unimaginable images,
Among,
The abacus' lines, I saw... I saw so many
A circle formed as only into
A misshapen ellipsoid; although askew,
It still contained a perfection precise,
Contained every exactness enumerated.
.................
Doubt Implies
-----------------
Doubt implies its own impotence -- this
I was told by the simmering assertions within.
The dimness of certainty bends then explodes
Into these dire dimensions of calculation.
Thus the conjectures impatiently slept
Until their waking upon the abacus.
Thus the bloodied genius I despised
Internalized its indecision quaintly angry.
And then indeterminate understanding wanders;
It moves vertically then tilts. It
Displaces its salvation with this lens,
With the excretions of vain indications.
*****************
Prayers Of The Abacus
------------------------
Slanted are the shapes falling from dimensions,
Are the prayers of the abacus, of the paragraphs
That tempt this beauty's lens, that transmute
From shame to edgelessness, from each horizon
To the angles devoid of direction. And I saw
The dice shatter against their emptiness.
Placed within still metal is the
Incomplete and postulated epitome of every dream,
The epitome of any drastic circle made from vowels
And such substance, made from numbers expressed
Then flung asunder, then toppled before
I wake to forget the exactness circumvented surely.
+++++++++++++
The Abacus Drew
----------------------
The abacus, it drew such strange mathematics,
And mathematics is a misspelled dream.
Oh, when I woke from that illusion
I did not recall it, for the rain,
The rain again is our denial.
The abacus drew the curvature somehow,
And this curvature is within us.
Ah, the angles too are barely altered,
For abaci draw such a thunderous sky,
Draw the rain transparent and only implied.
oooooooooooooooooo
Untouched Abacus
------------------------
I never touched the abacus.
But I grasped it in my sight,
In my dream, inside its image
Within abstraction unseeable.
I left it lying upon a bizarre ground,
And then I woke.
For once I could have arranged
The permutations amongst order and position,
Could have arranged the particles themselves
Into lines parallel and metallic.
But I did never even understand such games,
Did never touch the rectangle man-made,
Did never make this offering to innocence.
For counting and calculation are but expressed,
Transforming into identity, equality, truth,
And into the polygon which has been forgotten,
Which has been regretfully shunned.
.......................
Of Meaning And Foresight
----------------------------------
We could not have foreseen such prophesies,
Never predicted the placement of photons
Within this constructed, but misconstrued,
Reality (appearing overly linear,
Overtly imperfect). For
These choices both chaotic and intentioned,
Theirs are our unimaginable possibilities.
Theirs is a world of infinite labyrinths,
Each path expanding unto our ignorance
Of its description, of our futures
Attained and only slightly
An approximation of, slightly proximate to,
Only slightly forbidden yet
Cast upon the arrangement
Of the stones of this abacus,
Upon the envisioned but uninterpretable
Derivation of meaning and foresight.
For knowable not were these fates
Themselves only an infinitesimal subset
Of every image -- every image which
Time has ever composed.
//////////////////////////
As If Each Multiplication
--------------------------------
These sums of sums equate again
With the measurements of abaci, with
Stale retribution manmade and yet
Divine somehow despite the rain,
Despite the squares and their insides,
Despite the division by such similarity.
Yes, the sums of sums of sums remain
Here upon the glass as before,
Remain here, drawn as if magnificent,
As if each reciprocal has meant little,
As if each multiplication has added within.
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
As Absolute
----------------
Absolute:
And assumed is/was what I had defined
As being indefinable, as being
A maze made of numbers imprisoned
By this symbolism, by this compass drawing
Any one circle as if it had, yes, assumed
That this trite madness is absolute
And idiotic and insignificant.
Absolute and abstaining from any image
Drawn by words sketched with stone,
Sketched with the abaci made of numbers
Imprisoned
By this, the symbolic,
The compass only tracing
The concept of circles again,
Again, and repeating such a task
As if it is trite, as if mad, as if
It is as idiotic and insignificant
As I.
______________
Thanks,
Leroy Quet
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