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Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Screen Time

Is a body of water a body? 
Privilege carries optimism like an embarrassing helmet.
And suffering? I have nothing to say about the unsayable.
This poetry is salty land
The sun shines on during the day
In outer space,
Anywhere you can see the sun is day. 
Night is geographical. 
.   .
My sense of the political
Like windows
Like eyelids
Like a camera with no film.
All my metaphors are situations they don't know how to talk about.
For two years, your sons were spies living among you
And now their pessimism erupts beside their delight
The old men with mustaches
Gossip and drape the sidewalk with their gray wings
So cavalier that when the blade comes
My wound holds shut beneath a green handkerchief
As long as it is not removed
I remain vivid and picturesque
Sitting in my folding chair with my folding easel
Under the summer light I could be cauterized
But also burned to ash, just like you. 
Reading is the wrong form of jealousy
Resentful not of words but of typewriters.
Who uses typewriters anymore? 
It's not true about Soviet pencils.
Again today
I kiss my ears
And erase my ears
Too vaguely aware of the constant hum
Not of the landscape, only of your damaged apparatus. 
I would have salad for dinner but salad is too broad a category. 
Childhood might or might not be improved by subtraction. 
Even at my age I learn words for the first time.
How do you feel about experiences?

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