Sunday, October 8, 2017
A black-and-white photo of you, energizing
me like warp drive on Voyager. I need you
now more than ever as I stumble toward
oblivion. Where are you? I speak to you,
include you in out-loud toasts when I drink
a beer, but you never respond. Have I been
misinformed? I revolt against the acceptable,
then the acceptable revolts against me. Many
fester in stability when there is no stability. The
earth will persist, I’m sure of it. I hear sirens
from its four quarters—no, nothing metaphysical
in that there’s a hospital nearby—and I wear the
flannel shirt you gave me. It’s a size too small,but its tightness swaddles me in your memory.
The sycamore (older than civilization, a sapling
when declarations were signed in wooden lodges
behind enemy lines by periwigged and powdered
aristocrats, tended to by black slaves and new
nations were initiated in blistering confusion)
now deadly, extended, quadrupled in size
but unpredictable in that it might have
outgrown its roots, and as steady as it appears
is actually teetering in every breeze, and, like
a neighbor, not to be taken for granted.
The teen diva impressive, a white face in a sea of
darkness, not taught about brutality yet must
sense the incongruous when celebrated as a benefactor
by equally uniformed children of the oppressed.
And so it goes that history is
sanitized, made palatable, twisted, so symbols
replace truth, and I, frustrated by a fear of reaction,
hover over a computer, reduced to signing petitions
that go nowhere.
A poem with cryptic and self-indulgent riddles
that scholars can make their living with or couplets
banged out on a empty paint can that have the aesthetic
of a laundry list. The authentic a consistent fatality
come to life thoroughly in the old-age complex I live in,
with those who have not given up breathing but seem
to have perished ages ago, and if not, have kept themselves
shrouded for so many years, they no longer have the
capacity to be otherwise.
And I like them—although not yet
dormant. Self-censoring, yes, but short of effacement,
but knowing when not to speak. Not a state of denial,but of dying.
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Put you in terms of nature, although nature is no
more natural than a city where people nest. Bring
nothing to an artwork, nothing representative, put
you in terms of not the street you live on, but pebbles
crushed under car tires, shot up often into passing
vehicles, leaving quarter-sized dents on doors and
fenders. Life is an emulsion, the sirens, the silence,
six chords on a guitar you memorize, play resolutely.
Come with nothing familiar but colors or words and
make something occur that wouldn’t have. If you
do something do something more. If you haven’t
said it then say it and keep moving. Urges, hues,
stay raw, as an ex-friend said of me, be a colossus,
larger than that, be treacherous, be everything.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
A situation is creeping towards
You might miss it. It might terminate
seconds before you’re aware it has. If so, focus on
a parallel situation, although conclusions
never actually occur. One merely says “enough!”
A war ends here, begins there.
A love story ends with a marriage, a marriage
ends with a divorce, kids, remarriage, new families,
new friends, new un-friends, And in
this constant shifting, we live, eat, and work.
The road goes to the left, to the right,
in the future up, at an angle,
GPSs become three-dimensional
There is no end to derivations.
Dislocation will thrive—those dwelling in a box
will be driven over, crushed, Protesting
a must—tyrants look like they’re winning,
they’re not. They never do, but they
leave bodies everywhere, including
Quibbling over tactics is not unity. But one
person can’t do it alone. The human race
sparkles, yes, but is also laden with fools:
people who reject their own bodies.
Centuries of misery will not stop. Living
is a constant blossoming, erosion. Wars
are life, too. Many need to be fought,
even if you have no weapons.
Just so many people can be shot down.The time is now. It’s always now.