Outside the city of X
a child hid in the fields. He hid
in the fields of wheat, the wheat
grown for the mill that sat at the edge
of the fields where he hid. What languages
did he not speak? The languages he spoke hide
in the fields of language. Here is the mill,
my anti-inheritance.
I’m powering it up for what?
Old, he talked to me about the mystic
economy. He wanted to fill the mill
of his mind with bucks, fund his languages
with bucks as their absence brought him
to sell his printing press, buy thin dresses
to sell at markets in the fields of English.
I can’t money the mill of his mind now, trace it
from wheat to what to ideas we can move into
instead of a homeland. I power
the mill down, am powering it down.
I’m revving the ferry, shooting
an arrow into a past I can explain.
The dead economy of home funds me.
"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.