January 13, 2013

how much for this poem...

 from: Martha Rolser. Meta-Monumental Garage Sale. 2012 @ MoMA

at the garage sale there was this white truck with a slid window bell

why do I care at all
what people think
about Love
or its wordless expression
some people will always forget
I suppose, although I am prone
to bothering myself, pleasing everyone
striving to find every good feeling

fortunately, for my longevity
I've been
keen and selfish
too clever, too often to know
that driving this train
is best left up to those
paying attention
to the road
I’m travelling on

I'm into middle age now
into the great slowing down
into the light where middle girth
stays within sight, growing
patience and increasing eyes
for grain’s heirloom surprises
I graze and scour for intentions
languages hidden riddles
hooked for in the seas
of anonymous faces
the all too common sights
of a misanthropic world

I lean inside places
the races gathering 
measures of ourselves
where we finish advantaged
fed every purity’s remains
to write our names 
in the chaos

from here
I portal back doors
electromagnetically enhance
the brochures and destinations
I read pinching time
like slid fingered skin
over fine cloth
the right amount of stitching
can win
blind man’s bluff
with static lightning
key chained indulgences,
round trip tickets, ice cream
and a memory tied together
like a dusty etch-a-sketch
waiting to be found
near the back
with the books


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