Sunday, December 29, 2013

Apparition Poems 12.29.13


Out of the apartment, walking down
East Eden Street, I note somewhere
in me how it might feel to be homeless—

also inaccessible is the glad warmth
of generous times richly lived, which I
used to know so well. As the sun rises,

something/someone other than me
sees the whole tableaux, meets me in
the middle— wires, houses, lights—


The encumbrance, in a recession,
against Wordsworth— there are
no visible incidents or situations.
People huddle in corners, die to
themselves. Imaginative colors
are always black, white, grey—

nature’s primordial green stung
from view, seemingly forever.
The starkness of our green is
its blackness, in being what we
are not. The “perfect image of
a mighty mind” inverts into a

perfect scourge, thought past us—

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

X-Mas Eve Apps


On mornings when it all feels
precarious, what you meant to
be mountainous so much easily
washed away sand, I clean myself
by subtracting all I’ve written
from my conscious mind, so that
I’m merely someone who likes

books— I’m old enough not to
mind being that person, who
reads Keats for kicks, sits
harmlessly having profound
thoughts, hoping well of/for
everyone, blinkered like an ox—


“In this recession, no one likes anyone’s
work, because no one real who’s left likes
anything— art depends on a settled brain

to perceive it the right way”— I agreed,
felt bad for him, all alone on a heap of
rocks in the wilderness space of his own

subtle brain— but said nothing out loud.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Apps: 12.22.13


Three days before Christmas, its
unusually warm, the simple fact
of a solid grey sky redeems what
torturous human complexities I
have no way out of— where the
sky begins is where we end, on
the ground where gutters fit, I
heave my own brain into the sky—


The human mind is
not a parking lot
being rained upon
on a dreary Sunday
morning, its wont
(the mind) to issue,
from positions of
singularity into multiplicity
(even) literal knives to
make their own incisions,
mountains/valleys kill
differently, worthiness/humanity—

Friday, December 20, 2013

Apps: 12.20.13


For a guy playing father (dossier,
secretly, in hand, he was only eighteen,
didn’t really know how to do this),
he’d found himself in so much
trouble so fast he wished he could’ve
avoided the gig (this is all they could
find for him), all because his daughter
had screwed the wrong guy, was in
trouble with the authorities. She
was only (it turns out) two months
pregnant, but rules were rules.
However, it was nice to watch the
Eagles defense function again—
the heist last week was too pitiful for words.


They want to sign this kid up for
Little League, kids’ got no last name.
I asked them how this could be,
they wouldn’t answer. I don’t get
it— kids’ got talent, apparently,
but no last name. I turned the case
(I don’t know what else to call it)
over to my supervisor. But things
are getting more and more weird
around here, and there’s a bunch
of things I try not to notice. There’s
something wrong with these kids, right?

Saturday, December 14, 2013

App: 12.14.13

# 2065

One thing a huge recession will do—
suburbs grow more provincial, self-
contained— no fluidity between us
and the city, with its concrete, grey
degeneracies. Conshohocken has its
own rhythms now: furtive, tentative,
towards an individual, non-subordinate
identity. As I notice we’re all becoming
“regulars” in some places, possibilities
arise of huddling together for warmth,
against martyred goombas, soulless
media. Painfully, slow roots will spring.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Thursday's Apps: 12.12.13


Idolatry of words, signs— idolatry,
also, of anti-cognition— an American
century subaltern, already (strangely)

lost, forgotten in daily squabbles for
survival, as money is either there or
not, freefall becomes shorthand for

normalcy. I walk through the ambient
museum of human angst, buttons
pressed, resources tapped but not

drained, I stop before an idol cast in
bronze, face besmeared with grease,
and realize the guards are murdered—


If you attempt to
create something
solid from language,
all the million
harrows of your
inadequacy must
pursue you, what’s
solid is harrowing—

past your control.
As for I, you had
better sacrifice the
whole construct,
complexities & all,
as it is all evanescent,

and circuits back to
language show you
all the magic
prophecies of non-
existence you not
only fulfill, but harrow—


Among those who care about art,
and the arts— in recession times,
they recede, grow inarticulate,
theses proved incorrect, mostly
die quietly to themselves— as I
have, and my corpse lies rotting
somewhere on 23rd Street in
Center City Philly, even as I’ve
also stayed alive, refuse to recede,
out of sheer force of correct pretense,
honest bullshit, prophetic blarney—