(untitled)
Suppose I was to compose a poem,
a telling gesture as supreme as Dali’s
mustache on the Mona Lisa,
or Duchamp’s bicycle wheel
and shovels—something
to put even Plato to bed
as an old man,
murmuring to keep existing,
even as the bubble contracts
upon us now.
But surely, to bring the USA
in now would be the biggest mistake a poet
could ever make in this day and age—
eliciting unspoken outrage at every turn,
in so many different ways,
at just the mention of it.
And yet, altering the course of all human civilization
for the better is the most grand poetry there is isn’t it?
Which means the bathroom smell,
translated into action to rid our minds of such
unpleasantness, ought to be composed—
indeed when even standing in line at the coffee shop
is no fun anymore.
As odious as this one has
become, it should be accorded the accolades
of any piece of art,
along the lines of what Emily Dickinson said,
that the truth being such a rarity,
tis but a delight to speak it.
But who fucking cares anymore?
Yes, people like Emily—people who still pay
attention to the narrative of
affairs which currently tread upon Earth’s face—
they’d want to shout that if
we remove the unpleasantness, such
consciousness will become a thing of the past,
and we could all breath
a sigh of relief, and blow past the following
moment fueled with the ecstasy
of suddenly being free of a long-time problem.
Of course people like Emily and other Artists
would share the following truth;
that holding a convention in the country
with the biggest military budget
would redirect our path to the stars.
We must formally discuss
where we are beneath a current status quo
that history says is most certainly going to slit our throats.
But you’re likely some white person
who likes poetry, and when confronted with the
truth, will stop reading. Even though
poetry with a capital P has always been about
composing words to show it.
I hope you liked how this poem drew you
in with a few artist names,
an ancient philosopher,
and promise of a complicated
gray mush like so much else of what is published
these days—
then landed the truth—
that you’re alive;
that millions of others are too;
and at present a growing number
are calling for a formal discussion
of our collective situation.
