on the first anniversary of the New York lockdown
history's toe is no marvel
no orchestra darkens its helmet
its hissing city
hisses too
discover this: this
far from sound color
retreats, a poached touch may
throb in dreams and nothing violate
the haywire exterior
well, Mary, better let it,
and elongate like a mushroom
in the rented patch
your own life's dark
for the old speeds still appall
no vicious crystals go
no feeding only talking at the trough
remember kissing
remember just sitting there
now I crack eggs, gas a roach, read, steam
like a horse in slush
"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.