Monday, January 2, 2017


He induces, seduces, polemicizes
with indelible postulates, but
only after one's attention has been diverted.

I do none of that.

Conviction, agitation, I respond directly,
obliquely, hear everyone, follow no one.

Say I'm searching for a writer
who has a summation, a continuance.
Realize on the bus one morning
I am that writer.

Sad that people cling to broken machines.
One doesn't want to discard them,
but they are not worth fixing.

A new widget is cheaper. Better.
Although plastic.

So, too, with religion.
Parts break, are irreplaceable,
no longer produced.

What's the point?
What's not the point?
Talk is talk,
although sometimes less.

You have to
establish yourself,
be something or be gone.

Such distortion, such omission,
never describe, never analyze,

Mao wrote,
"If you want to know the taste of a pear,
you must change the pear
by eating it yourself."

Pound wrote,
"Pay no attention to the criticism of men
who have never themselves written
a notable work."

All is laughable, all complex—
to do something in someone's name
he neither desires nor understands.

But to do it in your own
seems self-indulgent, greedy.
Meaningless, irrational.

Where there is repression, there is resistance
—one hopes.

Life is too busy—
working, eating, shopping,

Pound wrote,
"The age demanded an image . . .
Not, not certainly, the obscure reveries
of the inward gaze . . . ."

No, definitely not, not an inward gaze . . .
an outward gaze.
An act.

Exupéry wrote,
"A being is not subject to the empire of language,
but only to the empire of acts."

A tyrant, a psychopath, a CEO,
continually coming, continually going.

But so many suffer.

So many limbs.

Caudwell wrote,
"The price of liberty is not eternal vigilance,
but eternal work."

(This poem appeared in Stand (Leeds, England, U.K.)