Rider, Horse & Dog: "John De Herrera"

Monday, May 10, 2021

Character dialogue

“Here—let me put it to you this way—what’s stronger, rock or water? OK? See what I’m sayin’? You remember what I told you about metaphor and how the whole cosmos is metaphor to the mind of humans? The what's-stronger-rock-or-water metaphor is that the rock represents the material world and water represents spirit. The takeaway? What’s stronger—material or spirit?”

Friday, October 23, 2020

Revised Poem

(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.

Monday, September 28, 2020

Poem

Few The Flowers

Don’t you know
who Leonardo
Da Vinci is? Or have you forgotten
because it’s been so
long since we’ve all been remembered?
Looks again at his pages
of science and artistry—
he once drew the most beautiful
copse of trees—
not all humans possess
equal intelligence,
not every monkey
in the tree
is smart as the next,
why artists have always been
revered, for their ability to create
light and warmth
in the midst of icy darkness;
to deliver the goods
and proof that we too
are a magnificence of our own.
Of the bell-curve
of consciousness,
some are dim and some are bright,
most are foliage,
few the flowers.