Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Incidents of Rubber

I lived in a garage in 1967
And then I moved to a bus
This is what poets do
They build parenthetical habitations
For their beads & spatulas
Their wonderful antagonisms
Their meaningful babble
Their velvet & lingerie
What is the harm in writing a poem
What is the harm in pursuing a life
Of writing poetry? It is simply this:
When we feel a rapier
Of purposeful
Purposelessness run through our guts
We know we’re on to something
Lethal. If you’re a poet who knows plumbing
Or law you will find acceptance
And the resistance of a metal
To denting. The dime shines
That is romantically awkward
Like a profession
When the abstractions become personal
And form is more than its content
It’s a consistency that cuts across the continent
Without leaving a trail of tears to secure
The idea of rope which is partially frayed  
Nor is it consummate like a stepladder
But acoustical like a railroad
Moving toward the sun
Of a particular feeling
Concerning Argentina. Vividness
Has a price. If the friction of life
Propels enough feeling that the water
Churns and the blood summons a purge
Then please join me in swallowing reality
And we will hum our favorite song of thread
Sewing our voices together in rhapsodies
Of something instead of nothing
I need a good camel
To the get to the end of the next sentence
And murder distance with a little velocity
Here is where the proverbs grow
In poverty & hardship & structures like oars
Bring us to the shore for a quick meal
And because the narrative necessitates a sag
In the bulk of time I will open a box
In the air & let the sounds find mouths
To say them, sing them, and otherwise snap
Into incidents of rubber 



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