Wednesday, May 16, 2018

the brilliant essay that is the sun...


Whoever does not fight against visible evil,

               loses the protection of the invisible.   

-- Paul Celan, Microliths (tr. Joris)


read the brilliant essay that is the sun

 for nothing is darker poetry
than my true desire
which I forgot to know/reveal
or maybe left on the train
in the rain -- to dribble
sentimental onion
almond or carcoffio

pomegranite, withered swill
rainbow sparagmos
--who wound the clock?

(whose) apparel is the differential
in every tree between
gibbet and cello
(remains undecidable)
fire-brand or boat's lantern
-- a hidden ship-lord's slander
beggars to receive

yet what is left but heart's schrapnel
for it is rather the heart that's been cut out
in discourse, blown to bits

(speak from the heart they say
follow your heart -- this is what they say --
hopping onto the 3rd person --
but what can this heart say to the post-
cartesian social media/medea
other than to speak as the insane
the validity of mad truth has been lost --
which remains for the heart
(the post-social conscience)
to retrieve

in the silence of...

  there's that Prussian Garrison
& the garbage-filled moat around it
-- the theory seems to be: leave as little as possible
for the imagination of Europe
let the impressive ruin of the enemy who built it
rot further, moulder into mire
in the gloominous shadow 
of the glory football stadion

 the girls come out of their Starbucks
at Bałtyk to chain the tables for the sea-surge
I look at reflections of one
 group of corporate building's
windows reflected into set of windows behind
while the tables of black metal
get chain-ganged to sculpted tree.
Jet flies over the Sheraton
whose rooftop garden
still doesn't touch the sky

Heaven is below us somewhere

Ravaged Matzevot, Rusałka. Photo by Jeff Gburek

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