March 1, 2010

Poem and the Nothing Ever After

when verbs to be are
reclining not even wanting
to work standing well away from the road
where no traffic moves and
an inconsistent hum comes
from somewhere sourceless

to complicate contemplation
a stillness longing into nothing
more and narrative stalled
stuttering to a stop so the
road’s servitude isn’t one any more

postmodernism slips into the reeds
covered in mud called courage and carrying
succulents for the unstable winter

and everything moves
an inhuman vibration or
responsive leafy listening verging
on an apocalypse of knowledge or
when the machines and plots
desist, it is what is left
blandly undefined and bushed

what is left is a rift—ahistorical
and clustered around a faint
filtering disorder called shelter;
you and I live there for years until
the wild men came with weapons—
after that no records were kept . . .

what is left is considered
faulty verse, a hack’s
ruinous reinvention of negative
culpability—‘git outta here
ya damn tree-hugger, damn
hippy—build something or die!’

1 comment:

Term Papers said...

Awesome post, I really enjoyed reading this article...