Animal's House of Muse

Vibes to Feed the Hasty Soul with the States of All that Matters

Corona at the Corner Market

Heralded by wayward tumbleweeds and a cloud of dust, a damp shadow descended upon the every town grocery, smelling like it hadn’t a care in the world. The doors automatically acknowledged the figure, which tipped his sweat-stained ballcap at the outdated security camera capturing all the action occasioned by the doors. Caught off guard by enigma, the camera short circuited and took with it the flickering fluorescent set as a familiar above its station; prompting the midday shoppers to stop and wonder at the high noon hullabaloo that cast itself upon their routines. He had no cart. He had no basket. He only shuffled through the produce aisle, inspecting all he surveyed as if the displays were meant solely for his prudential judgment; picking up every potato with his dirty mitts and haphazardly tossing each back. An incognizant, old lady went to pick a potato and the whole pile, unsteadied by the tramp, toppled about everywhere. The old lady, unsteadied by the potatoes, followed their lead to the floor. He continued down the aisle, unafflicted by the old lady’s plight, molesting the apples in the same manner he had the potatoes. A baby cried, awaking its stupefied mother from the spell of the stranger’s odd presence. “Excuse me, sir,” the mother demanded “Who do you think you are? And what do you think you are doing?” The man stiffened his back, sucked his snaggle teeth and with terrible breath replied, “Well, uh, that’d be no wonder.” He then turned and drifted right on out the doors, which automatically acknowledged his figure one last time before they closed for good.

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Great Expectations

In the realm of possibilities
Lies impossibility
Housed in eternity
Imprisoned there for
Lifetimes to come
Appearing alongside All else
As if equally capable
Of concretely manifesting
Of directly shaping the flow
Of animated events
And making matters
All the more cruel
For the stalled and unbecoming
Is that eternity periodically
Runs its course
Comes to an end
Redeeming a lucky few
Impossibilities in Time’s
Immediate perdurance
And for those prone
To finding Beauty
In unrefined potential
This element of chance
Makes determining the
Bounds of reality
And adequate fulfillment
. . . Impossible

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What I Accomplished at Great Heights by Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

I’ve spent the last ten years in a tantrum
Proving to the world I know more than books
That I know more than the books that I’ve read
I can perform
I can write
I can create
Adventurous piles of unfinished business
Never again to be addressed
For how do you retrace the steps of wild fury
Without ruining the day it rued?
How can you perfect the product of excess
Without smearing its original shape all over the floor?
What’s clear is this:
Within a tantrum,
Knowledge is unnecessary
Wisdom’s incomplete
All the world is yours for the taking
A stage beneath your feet
Each bated breath
And drop of sweat
A waste
Romantic peat
Fueling flames
And laying claims
The philosopher’s dance
A cheat

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At Least It Wasn’t a Burning Bush (That’d’ve Been Embarrassing)

I made demands of the High Heavens
“Your servant is poor
And hungry
And overworked
This is unjust
How am I to function like this
Where’s my deliverance?
I declared that.
My call received an immediate response,
A sign as clear as day:
A trash truck caught fire
Closing the Walt Whitman Bridge
Just as I began to cross it
Just as my tank neared empty
And my bladder filled to its brim
My cup about to floweth over
Traffic came to a halt.
In the blaze I heard a stirring

You should have rang the Devil
I do not particularly move
Measure my currents
And find your own way home

Which I did,
But I nearly pissed myself laughing

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A Spoiled Princess and Her Frozen Peas

I can feel the cries of this ensouled earth
Crunching through and beyond
My memory foam insoles
Raw affliction reaching my ear drums
By happenstance
As I tread atop the cold, hard ground
Embittered and brittle
A once intrepid sward
With its subtly sharpened blades
Slicing the skin of exposed passersby
With noble resolution
And a lack of prejudice
Has no more give
Its swords break under the weight
Of my swiftly bounding school shoes
Such deformed, mutilated remains remind me that
As an individual, I’m not solely here
I’m not alone in the blight of February

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The Williamstown Marching Braves Present, “Deja Vu: An American Re-evolution”

I wrote the following poem for Williamstown High School’s 2020 Indoor Percussion Ensemble. In order to make concrete the abstract theme of their show, “Deja Vu,” we decided to explore the existential tension between linear time and cyclical time as it emerges in the repetitions of history. A voice recording of the following poem will be played immediately prior to the start of the music. We feel it really ties the music and its drill visuals together 😎

History may repeat itself
But we can change the ends of time
By rhythmic measure we can cheat
Our origins of their chime
Through deja vu
A rendezvous
With the patterns we abide
We shall return
To freedom’s ring
A cycle
Broken line

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Ex Nihilo.

It might seem like It comes from nothing. But for those who are paying close attention, Being bares itself in full during every step of its becoming.

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I Like My Justice Poetic

When you come from the land of plenty
And toy with the land of naught
Be careful what you wish for
You won’t get what you thought
Exactly as you asked
Exactly as I please
Your wording matters
Order fraught
With missteps

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Deconstructing Beauty

There’s no depth to bare bones
No life
No thrill
No music
Just purpose
And yet my skeleton
Is all I am to bear
If I am to gain
Any philosophical standing
I’d rather remain prostrate
Beholding the spirits and souls
To which my thoughts are beholden
Than to systematically peel
My skin and flesh away
‘Til all that’s left to reveal
Is myself, calcified and brittle
Rattling on about principles
No one can digest
Structured but formless
The passing wind composing my words
My life force having done fallen
Through the cracks of my framework
Splattering a patternless mess
On the grounds of my premises
I’d rather remain a whole damn testament
To what it means to fully measure
My metaphysical position in this world
Than to completely miss the point
Of Being here
In exchange for a pat on the back
And a buck
. . . f**k!
If a pat on the back and a buck
Don’t sound good right about now!

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To What Design Does Your Measure Yield?

I prefer spooky action at a distance
To a mechanics based on touch
Collocation is uncomfortable
And I suspect a hidden telos
Beneath extended entities
Disrupting my conatus
This much my body knows
And I’m deeply impressed
By its sentiments
I won’t be moved
By any absolutes
I find perfection in division
Gravity is reason
Rhythmically defined
Show me your downbeats
And I’ll dance of my own accord

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