Amazing, amazing created world images. Part of the artist’s Project Astoria series.
You are a lot like World War I
In that most Americans
Don’t understand you
Or why you’re such a big deal
Or where your boundaries are
Or who shot first
I could say we all got born in jail but come on
History isn’t that small
And this is not a metaphor, it’s a joke
A joke made of corncob and ash twigs
A joke made of metaphors, okay and life
Is more beautiful here under the guns
You and me
Dragging silver strings of time behind
Taking flattering selfies in trenches
Making duck lips in the blood gutters
You had to know it like I know it, this mad light:
burnt, decayed, greening
swaying like a drunk in this unsteady century
You never thought you would die
I never thought I would get arm fat
Yet here we are
Of course we’re both dying
You’re just farther along the spectrum than me
You’ve been hanging out with ghosts for years
I’m just howling at the moon most nights
I’d explain how the moon stands for dying
But yet another extended metaphor
Would be a stake in the heart of this poem
Which let’s be honest, was fairly stillborn anyway
Like all pointless elegies
But before we turn your death into a joke
Made of amusements
Made of tiny truisms or clusters of our own atoms
(And sure, I’d tell a joke for the sake of a poem, but)
Tonight I want to be swept back to when you were
Small and you listened, little pitchers
have big ears for English musicals
You had that terrible thing so memorized, so earnestly
Up on the barricades with chairs and carpets
After bullets and under the deluge you swam, so fast
The air in Harlem was full of French sorrow
Which is sweet and sad and only a joke
In the way that all life
Is a punch line
and every poem
has to have a moon.
From Danniel Schoonbeek’s “C’est La Guerre” - heard this fantastic poet at Big Lucks Three Tents reading series this weekend - was totally blown away.
If I see one more shred of pink rust come peeling off the face of this warehouse tonight.
With my bouquet of railroad ties that I plucked from the Union Pacific who’ll witness me.
When I’ve found the man who named the road on which you grew up and defaced him.
And wearing his father’s crushed suit and his cufflinks I fire your name in his furrows.
When I’ve poured his mother a whiskey and coffee and beer-back I’ll learn her our myth.
We come from low country with deer ticks in our blood is that what they’re selling.