Through a blank slate of feelings,
I ran miles wondering if it rained
or if it was dew when I stepped
out to light this morning. How
to know when I’ll feel like my
old self or maybe life’s just a new
click of urge and want, the buzz
of an airplane I saw and a stalk
of bamboo split near some
graffiti unreadable. I’d like
to remember today
even though it feels pretty
ordinary. Some purple patch
of wildflowers. The mystery
of everything sudden.
"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.