Jewel-glow fruit gummies, sugar the body needs
too much, not enough, sleep, pain, shoulder blades
all ache from sitting up to see snow-swarmed
streets, maelstrom of ice pellets blown
by the car’s draft, not fall, but swirl, surround.
Each night, changes in pressure explode
the slate in bursts, like some unknown animal
knocking loud against the roof of this house,
last winter filled with grand pianos
kept warmer than we permit ourselves.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.