December 19, 2005

katabasis by Rob Budde

everything is intelligent
and you are in it;
everything is unknowable
(that slug you tried to keep
in a jar and it disappeared;
that pool of water in the woods
with no bottom)
and you are in it
at the edge
of all human feeling

the basics are nowhere to found
floating in the weekday routine,
the latte enemas, traffic snarls and
strange meat on the table—the bottom
is lost, indecipherable as ancient ruins
scuffed over at the back of the schoolyard
that beat you up

a depth of feeling bred out
in echoing classrooms,
by the mechanisms of making things,
through wired technologies of the inhumane,
and sheer laziness

i went back to that place
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths

(the pond, the gold image
of my face)
when i was 12—it was sweet,
unnerving, and sharp;
i went back to that place
in language and it was folded,
unsupported, and mine


hardyf said...

nice. latte enema?! yes please.

Rob Budde said...

argh. hardy f is poking fun at the fact ken b. and i are casting off the shackles of caffeine addiction. go ahead, yr young, think yrself immortal . . .