Inspiration

Of late, my work has focused on the loss of tactility in our everyday experience as urban people. There is a great distance between the physical world and our conceptual engagement of it. Food is not recognizable from it's original state, music is downloaded and "face time" means screen to screen communication. This poetry longs for a recovery of our proximity to real presences and states.

One aspect of this exploration involves the use of typewriters. I find that the visceral nature of typing on these machines inspires an appreciation for each word and intimates a rhythm that would never be perceived otherwise. Many of these poems begin on the subway and then get banged out on my Olympia Report Deluxe Electric. I truly hope you will enjoy engaging with Tactility.


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

relic 1

It's embarrassing
But I'll admit to feeling a degree of lostness.
Irreparable. Vast.


I long for the smell of saddlebags;
The shiny serenity of compasses
Relics of an ancient adventure
All mine.


I am king of this adventure.
There are pieces of it on my shelf,
In my closet,
In boxes.
River stones.
Tiny, colored rocks


I want buffalo jerky and cornbread.
Beans over a fire,
A morning pipe
And the obligation of fishing.


I want a cold stream
And wet enduring horses
Keeping their heads above water
Across a river.
The wilderness.


This lethargy will die in the wilderness.
This disdain for life.
I'll seek the lost hours of miniature wars
And red wax ammunition.


A tall horse will befriend me.
I'll want to collect horse shoes and wait
For them to tarnish in the rain
Or on the floor of the stable
Perfectly there or there.


When he is finished walking,
We we will stop under acacia boughs
And say nothing at all.
We despise words


Warm under the shade tree
There is nothing left
Even Death
Will not trouble us with exaggeration.


When we rise it will be for the last time.
For all time.
It is perfect for us to stay here.


In silence.
Unperturbed.
It's all we've ever truly known.




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