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

smithereen'd

(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