"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait" -Longfellow

Friday, September 11, 2015

Poetry for Today's Nowhere

Art by Bruno 9li (LINK)
1.
I don't write about these things, but I'm scared.
I haven't even considered what I'll seem like
from the standpoint of the Ultimate Observer.

I really don't write about these things, but I'm glad
We made a baby and
named her the silver name of electricity as it flows.
and we named her for the Sage from Concord.

I never write about these things, but
what the fuck:
I'm afraid of the police,
I don't wanna have to kill my brother even if he wants to kill me,
I love me some football
and I have more faith in Rap Music than in the Democratic Party.
I distrust America, boasting its pride itself
as Cardinal Virtue,
dreaming asleep in the poppies,
mindscaping in chalks and frustrated machines
who only eat data and never
look
at
the moon.

I can't write about these things,
but
I don't believe in truth. it slips
and shudders, approaching the udder of the Source. it shrinks,
it blinks at the farther flinching sweetness of the Human Urge.

I don't usually write about the going of the night,
but I think Existentialism is a Bullshit, crafted by enraptured and trapped
hippocratic masters
who still can't help thinking Dynamic Beings would ever need
healing and progress
to believe.

why would I write about my love?
that which yields in chasing proves finite in inspection
as that which shields dying respects living less.

I don't typically expound upon these things,
but I like looking into peoples' houses when I go on walks.
I can't escape that the sum and ghost of reality is recreated
in each one
each day.

it's a maddening obsession,
considering the truest nature of diversity is
confronting the absoluteness of infinite uniqueness
and Permanent Death.

I don't write like this,
but I'm hyper for the shrill pitch of the Internet:
this massive amassing of masses' mementos from all moments
and a cornucopia of breathless angles. it's
the essence of hope
in the face of the blossoming darkness
that dangles like a chandelier into
every Living Room.

I won't write about this. but
I can't vibe to consumerism's high.
and I'd try,
I would.

but there can't be a meaning in owning
what's made out of wind.

I wouldn't usually write like this, but I've just rechecked the fridge
for accidental beers to disappear the fears that come
packaged in sinewy now -- tone deaf night.

in the right frame of sublime, you can Rimbaud
the senses silent
and be only strings of energy
that also might not exist.
you can mock your own concern even for anarchy.
even for exploding.

I wouldn't consider writing about these things,
but it's after the End of the World after all. and Emerson still
cheers loudly at the arrival of each New Day.

so I bring up the edge of Oblivion, to worship proper in the sparks
of the vanishing second.

what meaning?

and not writing about it. and not reshaping the obscurity of horizon.
and not painting with this blood.
I couldn't forgive myself.
a coward.

refusing to remark when Smallness comes to claim
and question
and stay.

I am writing about things,
like I have since the gold/blue anxiety of my adolescence. but
new wears, wares, and nowheres. and new awareness
never final.

I just can't write about nothing

because it might be too real.

2.
there's a pressure neath ceilings molded
and bejeweled with fluorescent lights.
my dusty boots always twitch
with my soul's itch for low down freedom,
and my hands shake knowing that the
Great West Coast quake could happen
while I'm trapped in someone else's fantasy
of accomplishment.

3.
since they buried my dad,
that cold grandma-cry day back in November,
I don't really feel any different.
all I know is that I'm supposed to.

And I oughtta be looking for him
in morning fogs,
expecting his footsteps in the mud,
and hearing his mesquite voice, in organic cadence,
over my shoulder when shit gets real.

I find myself listening for pre-birth silence instead.

I hang my happy purgatory
in that inverted city,
where the buzzing walls are inescapable
and the only light is the zeal of ancient birdcalls.

if I stay real still,
I can at least pretend to understand
my salvation in voiceless infinity.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

you write beautifully. i can tell the words fly off your tongue and onto paper without revisions needed. your poems have changed me and the way i think . seize the day james