FlatIrony

So as I walk through the tunnel my shadow keeps passing me. I’m haunted

by the bicycle ride we never took to the bar we never stopped at that nonetheless

I drive by and every time I think, grudgingly, of you. In this case you

means my stupidity. My desperation. I often don’t quite believe I can afford to be in the world.

It’s the end of the semester and my shadow keeps passing me. And this town

which used to belong to my now ex husband and his mother now belongs

to no one. Grades are as useless as BMI. I worry about both. I’m not sure if or where

there is room. The bakery is remarkably good and the woman I’m meeting

to sell me her skis gives me a hug. Later, we say “whee” and mean it, or

we mean “eggshells.” We walk. Everything
smells wrong.

[The challenge is to write relevant poems]

“The challenge is to write relevant poems…”

Your writing reveals your personality. Maybe

there is nothing to say. You are an empty glass, no halves until

you realize your body is neither an object nor a map. Pointing.

Until you realize your body is neither you nor separate

from your mind. Your body reveals nothing. Maybe

this is what you have to say.

Pointing reveals direction. Your personality reveals nothing

about your body. Your body reveals the point. Apparently

“death” is not a four letter word. I think we already knew this.

Four letter words we already know include "east" "date" "doth" "head" and "hart."

"This" is also a four letter word. The challenge is to write nothing

that reveals your personality.

Direction reveals your body over time. Time is something we would like

to pursue. We would like parallel instances and we would like to meet

each other. We would like to get to the point. At least

we would like to get going. Maybe

this is the direction we would like to go.

The challenge is to observe your body from within your body without

becoming separate. The point is over there. Where I’m pointing.

The direction is a distraction from the map, which is neither your body

nor an object. The map is an idea of your personality,

an idea of an empty glass over time. The glass fills with dirt. The glass

is full of air. Space is everywhere. “Dirt” is a four letter word. “Glass”

is not. Maybe this is the direction we would like to have gone.

Dear Edward Snowden

 (a letter, a poem)

 

Here’s what I know about art: art is something we (people) make. Decisions are something we (people) make as well. Edward Snowden made some important decisions. Edward Snowden made some good decisions. But what makes good art?

Unveiling. Deliberateness.

I am talking about art. I am talking about you, too, Edward Snowden.

For your deliberateness may not save us but may lead us toward something

we might call salvation.

We might also call it hope.

Traitors are those who do not love enough to swallow themselves.

Traitors are those who do not speak the truth in order to avoid living in airports.

Wikipedia offers me a list of people who have lived in airports.

I would like to offer you, here, a list of what your truth may make possible:

            Difficulty, that is to say, dialogue.

            Refusal, that is to say, recognition.

            Absolution, that is to say, absence of the absolute.

Your questions appear in the form of statements, but they are questions nonetheless.

Your questions need not be answered so much as repeated.

I would like, however, to answer one, here. You say,

I do not expect to see home again.

But you are home. You are always home. It just that

the essence, the very being, of home

            will never be the same. Nonetheless

you are welcome. You are welcome here and everywhere

that is the home you have helped make

            possible.

This is not your end.

May you always be home.

PS: Also,

you have made the idea of flying sexy again.