Why is there anything?
Where did the Nothing go?
What did The Bringers sing in?
What did The Showers know of?
And how much is Everything?
And where was it the Nowhere wished to go?
And who is it there, still and glimmering
Underneath the darkling glow?
We are conscious of pain,
And that pain is called “consciousness.”
Look around you, this place is held in place
Open a book, open a door,
Room after room and page after page of
Rococo-broke boned cages and hearts
Bathed in blood.
One times one equals one.
This is the story of the family.
“Boys can you please get your fists to curl up into your laps instead of pounding on each other’s sternums already today please?”
None of this is mine:
These columns, these monuments,
These hollow speakers.
There is no “neutral.”
I expect to die in war.
The cops are land mines.
Alive on two feet.
One in front of the other,
As if on a path.
All praise and prayer goes to she
All remittance acts of the mission-free
Hold nothing inside.
Rekindle your bridegroom,
Loosen your white brides,
Remain here, the few
Standing in the
Release every effortful freedom,
Make it too easy, as easy as everything
Must at last be.
Don’t forget the forgotten kingdoms
Of sinlessness and the innocents’ spree.
All? No! All!
How many angles does it take to get to your pink origins?
It’s the Bilderbergers on motorbikes and Shriners in tiny cars.
Arise! Move your Bottoms to All Faces Park! Protect Your Dogs, And Then Walk Forcefully, Keeping the Kids On Scooters in a cloud –
“Like a cloud of electrons, mommy?”
“Yes dear, just like a cloud of electrons around the proton.”
“What about the neutron?”
“Yes dear, of course, and the neutron.”
“Who is that man, mommy?”
“Don’t worry darlings, he’s harmless. He lives here.”
Two girls cling to the heavy belly of the other mother on the bus.
The outside one has black eyes full of first sight.
The other I cannot see but I know she is black-eyed like her sister.
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
“Because I am the only boy on this whole bus!”
I wish for a poem like a misplaced object –
Say, a toilet brush on a step-stool on a city sidewalk.
No personality, no politics – but JARRING.
No ambition. No means. Towards no end.
That way, people could look at it and shrug:
“That doesn’t belong here”;
“Where did it come from?”
Never do they suspect
That someone had made it
And put it there.
Something common, something out of place,
A piece of ignorance, an obstacle created
A suspension, insoluble, sticky –
A blue-ink drawing of a crowd executed
Without dropping eyes from faces,
Without lifting pen from paper.