Despite luxurious accommodations &
A scratch pad soaked in Clorox
To sanitize whatever ails
A faltering stain. For as the stain bleeds
Descending corners to puddle as potential
On the ceramic,
A ventriloquist collects the material &
Organizes it on their palette,
Decorating their Dummy
With a whimper.
We’ve never spoken about censorship
As if it required style. We’ve never considered
Of what could’ve been. It never asks
To be removed,
It’s better to leave it there
As a stark remembrance
About the beauty
A fleck of light frothed from the parking lot
And hung on my bedroom wall. I sprawled a bedsheet
On the window, fastened it with thumbtacks
To prevent the fleck from dancing
On my bedroom wall. It’s common knowledge
That fiends dance, but I dance
Like a fleck of light
To appease the fiends. I utilized the bed sheet’s dimensions,
Positioned it precisely to censor the fleck
But a thumbtack fell and exposed a corner. Steam from the sewage plant
Coiled inside the obtuse frame. Years ago
Acid was heaved onto the artistic director of the Bolshoi Ballet
By some dancers, they claimed it was for the people. He said the world
Appears like wax paper to him now,
Perhaps it rotates like a pointe shoe
To expose the dimensions
Of an obtuse frame. Perhaps a bedsheet toppled, intentionally,
To expose pollution created by a sewage plant,
Or, perhaps, I should cease staring out of regular frames
Expecting my perspective to be as perfect
As wax paper.
What’s absurd about Pop-Culture is that it doesn’t include anything abstract.
This lack of absurdity includes various cacophonies, sounds effects
but varied as
The noises a cash register produces
& melting snow filling the sewers. But these hip cacophonies appear
In simple places. An orator’s speech, specifically, a politician’s
Repeated catch phrase. “They’reeeeee great!” Or more complex
“we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”
Surrender we must to the notion that we’re plain.
But with this critique one must establish what makes the absurd special
And the everyday, not. What the anti-realist contributes
Is nothing at all. This style of nihilism means that from nothing
Something has begun. What’s unique about nothing
Is that it can be anything.
Picasso’s shapes readjusted to fit modern times
Are still the same shapes of yore. Joyce’s narrations
Compete with the banal every time an academic
Requires proper grammar. What is the Pop-Culture of everyday
And why is it valued as a necessity?
Gaia’s teeth are rotten
-if what we squander
That some spend their entire existence
Becoming what they were.
Toothpicks to trees
Adults to abortions
Compliments to desires
But empty smiles
Complete a frame
Around graffiti. And to
And to a bias
But to Gaia
It’s her World.
During times of revolt
Become passive aggressive
Because it’s the ego
Contending for its place.
Moments of shoulder to shoulder embrace
As claustrophobia pollutes
Study their neighbor’s ear-wax
Avoid a vibrating picket sign
Complete with a clever slogan
That promotes identity politics
In lieu of socialism.
From the safe space
That is a computer monitor
Common people shame rioters
Believing their curled toes and fingertips
Are more valuable
Than Molotov Cocktails. But gambling
On the human experience
Is like sewing a tumor onto a mole.
Flesh ought to remind itself
From where it’s reaching from-
Paradise is exclusive
But reality maintains
Quiet as the parking spots
Surrounding him. The windshield
Smells like a permanent marker-
I inscribe lullabies
On the scent
We inhale dreams
With exhaust. Nothing permanent
About them. Our social contract
That we surrender to shrapnel.
But I think poverty
Tastes like an exit wound. When I lick
Popsicles in winter
I envision cold steel
Ensnaring my tongue.
It’s a lover’s clench.
About it. At midnight
The city is a hollow vacuum
Begging for dust. We scratch off
For the bruise of darkness
Winces underneath. Saltines
Disseminate where exit wounds
Complain about their circumference.
They demand originality
Accepting poverty as commonplace?
Nothing permanent about it.
Ambrose, last egalitarian, a species bent on domination. He pinches skin on his elbow then bends it to form a corner, flesh tightens under his constraint inside this pose, he caresses the skin and thinks of useless rubber. He releases but the skin remains positioned as a raised flap. ‘Defiance, eh.’ He thinks. ‘What defiance proposes is a flag struck into dead bodies, construct of symbolic tradition.’ A woman perched overhead stares at Ambrose from her window. The glass is old and flecked with dry raindrops cumulated from years of neglect, the oblong formations and bleached appearance of the raindrops distort Ambrose, as he fidgets a splotch leers and censors his face, he’s a body to her for a moment, she invents a face:
Eyes of Mussolini, chin of Jay Leno, beard of Hemingway, cheekbones of Jared Leto.
He fidgets and her reverie manifests to realism. She peers at her laptop and continues reading her Wikipedia search. Within the text reveals the story of the “Breakfast Truce.”
Ambrose interlocks his fingers and forms a flesh telescope. He holds it up to his right eye and scans the surrounding area, framing the world in his cylindrical confinement. His flesh pales dandelions, pales a red pickup truck and gold Prius, pales a homeless veteran mumbling slurs to an invisible audience.
She motions her eyes from the computer screen and gawks at Ambrose’s peculiar examination of the surrounding world. She makes no conclusion and abandons her Wikipedia search for a book of Rumi’s poetry. She thinks he’s a genius. Ambrose has never heard of him.