Wednesday, May 2, 2018

Chestnut Blossoms: Poems in the Present Dense


the first time I've noticed
chestnut blossoms, the cone of orange-yellow
 there ought to be a poem
which covers everything

flowers of mud
or flowers in the muddle
weave my melancholy existence
or failing to be romantic
would mean what?
a kind of phantom lethargy
 in this rough age and day
where every other person's
hopeless inversion is dialectical
 (to catch a thief of substance itself )
trying to insure better health care
or educate children
futures for art's security
dances like a forest on the air
thick with our signals
seeming self-canceling charities
petals of sub-atomic
particles not so much fallout
and Being Fallen
through the basal ganglia
into the shoe box of death's obscenity
rattled for the tell-tale
heart in the earth's watch
of consequent snails
so much whiter for the wind
whipping the red hair
over bare shoulders
 or barren shoulders giving
rise to obvious thoughts
 (like what?)

 this writing which is similar to reading
living forms blossom and wither
in the midst of 60 million refugees
barely 1 % of the quota
taken in, given shelter
to remain a multikulti entity
riding on the back of Europa
I sit in the deluge of dim-witted lies
and fake new free for alls
flavor of the moment, kielbasa-head, bald
(in this writing which is similar to reading
 the reader must make the poem)
another day, another dullard
pulled up in that series of mercantile
mercedes got the bends of me
cotton candy religions in the schools
criminalist trigger happy TV
where the spoils of glamor cover
over the spills of oil we in scattered unions
gather to podcast political outrage
once in a blue moon
 (how to get the reader to write the poem,
to take their authorship seriously)
Yes, your life must become art
so there is nothing to buy
 Prehistoric flashbacks
track mystery up the mountain
 Yes, your life must become art
so there is nothing to buy
and everything to live for
Look at the flowers, hear the sirens,
mangia the rough cloud carrier of
Post-delirium demons
This is seriously similar to living
 writing from ethereal unpredictable spaces
seeming voices
as they flit by, the ears surprised
hearing it all nevertheless
it is that for which they alone exist
& this is your life
whether dream zone or full corpus
this is your life
riding the arc of full air

after all, you have to wonder, why, 
since the medium seems to be the message, 
& all instruments and intention exhausted 
(serialism = the exhaustion of all combinations = I-Ching), 
the insistent thing happens, anyway, 
no matter what you say about it


 “Whereas a ‘sound’ was really within the midst of this intense engagement with everything: with all the noise that you’ve ever heard, you struggle somehow to make a difference, so to speak, within that noise. And that difference isn’t necessarily about you as an individual, it’s much more simply about trying to augment and to differentiate what’s around you. And that’s what a sound is for me.”
  -- Fred Moten

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