It’s coming, make no mistake.
You cannot guess at the elephant,
feel the ground shake and say: I don’t
see any animal, that’s an earthquake;
or maybe it’s my bowels, yes
this must be my mistake: happiness
In the great refusal a blessed fake
where logic’s undeniable, you won’t
get stuck with the loser or abuser,
nothing but fear you choose so
abandoned only to yourself again:
when you wake years from then, wondering
”If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”
Nothing more than abstract ornament, explanations and discussions keeping us to ourselves; we were too petty for anything else. God and Spirit, man and God again: no insight into the common denominators.
Stupidity categorized the crews taking over. In Canada, one was reduced to waiting; at best, you sent yourself notes (not poems) hoping they would stay closed, or fall open revealing all upon arrival.
You are lost either way. Death enters your life: a troubadour strolling through the provincial town. Each gesture of government singing the unwanted guest to bed, who is finishing the last bite of food.
One brought no plans for conversation, issuing invitations in the dark he slips from his clothes. The livery stark amusement, leaving only the arc of a streetlamp which constellates: the hard vistas of distant expectation.
Of course there’s no such thing, speaking chronologically. There’s interruption, the stopped clock phenomenon where you see differently than what is actually going on: saccading to history, for instance. This would explain all those instances sweet and good where in a rage they call for annihilation in order to self-sustain the mechanism of what only you are allowed to know as true.
The idiocy of fascism, the great crowd determining the realistic. The martyrs and the saints. But then religion itself does not claim to envision anything like time foregone.
The event is happening now. Much the same way my cat sits on my desk studying forever by lamplight, for the enlightenment: so much for fun and entertainment.
Thus determineth the sacred and the vows. Meow, says Buddha. Ow, says Christ. Hello, I say to you in celebration of speech therapy also known as poetry in these ancient days.
Jesus lived 3 years as himself, got dead. Said Church was within you, but drink this.
Eat that, become cannibals. I’m coming back, but I’m not telling when: spend some time guessing. And in the meantime, live. That’s all. Get over yourself, or I will. Here it comes. I don’t want to spend eternity all hung up on things.
Outside the crows and ravens peck my eyes, the wind blows and I cannot tell time. In the far distance I hear something approaching, alive. Pardon me if I dust my broom and ride.
What? Never mind. You know I would not, could not, lie.