A bizzare, surrealist experimental poetry performance I created in 2012.
Bodies litter stained floors
in this subway station as the head
piercing drone of trains rush
through tunnels, an anonymous man
throws his own body in front of a machine,
is crushed by unimaginable force.
I am unaware of this, sitting inside
the beast that killed this human.
We stop for a few moments,
a robotic voice announces
that there’s been organic
difficulties. The world won’t stop
and so we’ll move on after more machines
clean up the mess. There is nothing
to say about the dirt speckled
baby blue tiles that adorn the wall
I stare at beyond the blurry advert
that encases this compartment.
We begin to move again.
This is what happened:
we said nothing mattered
enough times that it actually came true.
Only a few don’t separate meaning
from life now. Emerging
from the underground I found
a poem in the sky then followed
my sour gut, ignoring more crumpled
bodies along sidewalks. Heavily armed
police everywhere. A rich and powerful
person enters an ancient marble temple
on 17th street. I walk towards the source
of spotlights roaming skyscraper walls
and then sit in a fabricated park to lick
the invisible moon above us with my feeble
thoughts. Again I get up to wander and worry
about death, then remind myself to allow
my feet to guide the rest and arrive
into the unknown.
as you leak long and slow
worrying about rupture
all hunched over wincing
drunk off pain
you take a break from monotony
it’s raining outside right now
but that doesn’t matter what matters
is pain staring back at you thru a mirror
the absence of soul and meaning
knowing that if you could see forever
that there would be an infinite number of you
as the cold fluid supposedly water touches
your fingers suddenly stopping somehow automatically
when you should stop feeling
if only you’d stop feeling
A thrush picks at plastic
as chemicals cement both ends of beak.
The flutter of wings travel past sound
not faster, making gentle things
in the mind behind and beyond
machines speeding down the street.
An unassuming bird leveled
by artificial friction.
Maybe their end already went,
and this is just another requiem.
Every day I try to maintain or reconfigure my poetic compass. Although I don’t necessarily write a poem once a day. I like the idea of writing poetry each and every day, like William Stafford did, but I think choosing not to write a poem at a given moment can do as much nurturing as writing one would. I went to a reading where Curtis Bauer mentioned this as an important question that the poet needs to ask, should I write this thought or experience as a poem? I find that if I internalize a subject, a poetic idea in particular, then all different perspectives of it brew in my mind, sometimes subconsciously, and so I’ll get to the point where the poem blooms out of me seemingly spontaneously. Yet how can this be true? Shouldn’t the poet be content with attempting to create something out of nothing at the moment the idea sprouts? That’s true, but there needs to be a reason for searching for reason.
For me, not writing a poem helps me think poetically. Much of my poetry has to do with observation, hence relating external reality to internal semi-reality. I used to think that there was no such thing as objective, external truth. Surprisingly enough poetry has changed that for me. I hear people say that poetry is the most subjective form of expression when it comes to literature, and I couldn’t disagree more. Good poetry should strive to be universal. And no, I don’t claim to believe now that poetry is in the business of telling the truth, not only because that’s cliché, but because it’s insincere when poets exclaim that, and also not humble. Apparently the mindset for many in contemporary poetry is that you’re in one of two camps: the self righteous truth-seekers, or the insincere, excessive irony users. I’m not explicitly in the business of irony because that’s all been said and done before. America’s popular culture and capitalist society are irony-laden enough already, there’s no reason to unnecessarily inject more into the mix.
What’s the point of irony if you’re only unveiling something that’s thinly veiled? I’ll be honest; my poems are often dotted with observations of the ironic. Take On a Corner of “the French Quarter” for example. It’s a poem that at first sight is simply observational, a street scene, one that is stated to be insignificant in the first line. But there’s more to it underneath. “A cameraman from Channel 6 Action News/ﬁlms insigniﬁcance on/the corner of 18th and Walnut./A police car is parked in front/of TD Bank across the street./The trash can named/’Big Belly Solar Compactor’/overﬂows with debris and grafﬁti/has been sprayed on the side.”
These first three images belie irony because they allude to larger societal problems that can be seen in the dichotomy between the rich people strutting around and those who come up to me asking for a cigarette or spare change at the end of the poem. The cameraman is filming a supposedly innocuous street scene that in reality portrays the outward signs of income disparity in a section of the city that caters to the upper class. The police aren’t protecting people but banks. The supposedly high tech, “green” trash compactor doesn’t do its intended job and has been reclaimed by the streets with a graffiti tag. These are just two images that are at first only observational but then become ironic given societal implications.
And yet the irony in this poem is not overblown and not meant to be obfuscating. It’s even originally unintentional, as I set out to simply describe what was happening before me. Yet as I revised the poem I arrived at a point where I was able to extract meaning out of the seemingly mundane, the otherwise insignificant. I realized that the poem reflected a nurturing step on my poetic path. My goal is to reconcile truth and irony, and in order to do that I must nurture my writing at times by not writing, but thinking poetically. I try to analyze the world around me because there is meaning in the mundane. And doing so helps me fight against nihilism, which is the reason why I write poetry in the first place.