April 14, 2013

NaPoWriMo 2013 # 14

photo by EPA ©


wanted for poetry and other criminal undertakings including invoking  questions and sharing books


on the docket for the high court of new city magistrate district 44
located in ward 14, at the flat rust council building
there will only be a vending machine representative
mid century model auto-mat, human voice component, alluring, firm

humans are no longer certified for level 19 and above
clearance database access security positions
most are being phased out, replaced with low end algorithms
pocket brains, without a need to get high or retired with a pension
most humans get mop and napkin jobs now…easy control mechanisms surveillance, every street corner wired, seas of noise finding them stilled

plunder and pundit
waiting to seize
the future
the boots we wear
will steal meaning
back into these years
after they had started
burning all the books

the narrator makes an appearance as a dashboard bobble head speaker

he says
when poets don’t take chances
we will swear to pieces
broken up into words
with too many ways to steal
our lives, without us knowing
about it, living on, right here
inside their hollow thin meanings

he says everything
spoken, written down
carved repeatedly
onto souls
without meaning
is an order to begin
seeding doubt
by slowly bleeding
having a need
to write things down
to remember what art is for

too many words have become empty
unspoken pictures, meant to move with mood
de-sensitizing outrage, love and compassion
token-ed and transferred to the shaded fuzzy logics
of the black markets, we are the believers
we are the counters, the parameterizations of validity
we are the assured calls of advertisements now
embedded with subliminal divinity
something keeps daring us, to lick at carefully
the sharp edged subtleties
of denying ourselves in a material world

yes, this world dares
our children at heart
our artists, our painters
our newspaper, radio
men and women
those struggling
with digital meaning
in a dead tree view of the world
yes, this place dares our poets
our singers, our dancers
our long form patient souls
dares them to script the tides
to be a coffee can and piano wired taut
yes, they dare you and you and you too

the narrator jumps up
belly full of rum

so you see, in this time, when books themselves
are becoming fairy tales and cold case files
we, must all take chances, to read
and write and express every desire we have
we must put our sex organs in the words
on the words, they must bleed
with our names, our histories, our moans
they must bleed for what the Moon and Sun see
for every need to again be spoken past
for the fast handed biological end game parlor trickery
that is tell you vision, you see, we are given
every excuse not to believe
in anything but our silence

the narrator grows louder
rising above the clanging
glassware and dishes

there are too many words in solitary confinement now
in toxic, commercialized linguistic prison camps
too many heads down from it, portable eye padding
themselves with too many cellular comforts
too many dizzying senses of who we are
we hail, a cab, we are lost to the chief deformative
mirrors and images we have of ourselves
making sure we have every right mask for today
for the moment to moment recollection brigades
every one of us second skinning, some of us even winning
the functional selling points of god as a rescuer
we are all brimming the skim living in a hopeful jolly roger way

the narrator starts a newsletter
about the taxing of goods
and services rendered
about potholes eating
another neighborhood today
so why not, he said
why not take shelter
in rum’s dark story
take hold of splendor
buckle strap hitch yourself to it
witch-cinch the tight burying you can
of the old crucifix’s many holy blades
taken to punctuating the body of choruses
in a happy pirate song

we still bless the usa and save the queen here
we chant unseen, we wear rituals
we guise smiles, we wean, we inch along
we pocket horizontal somnambulant pressure lines
we find our safe zones are where the trade winds give value
we trap ourselves inside the x-markings, on spots, libraries once stood
we memorize what the little symbols we left in them margins do for us
we laugh at the purity in our eyes, discussing the map, its buried loot
its teeming books of all kinds, more words than pictures
each one, another pot of gold, embossed title pages, leather bindings
we smile in the tiny whittles of our drunken retinas
we are mesmerized, affirmed, in the glow of the thick
wicked candle on the table, tonight
we knew, as we looked all around us
we had taken our chances
and stole a little meaning
back inside the words

and with a little PS
the narrator says
could we start
in the morning
by cleaning up
this neighborhood
I will read
the bedtime stories
when we’re through
about god, magic bullets
and why children smile
no matter where
they live for meaning


EJR ©

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