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| 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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