Saturday, March 23, 2013

Place of Action

I am drifting from you
And looking back
While you take my picture
And this, this is becoming real
That is, it has more
Presence the more it happens
This longing not to be
A balloon drifting from you all
Umbilical in the wind
Like some Eurydice to pose
In the snow not knowing
What the moment can only
Pretend to know


Taller knowledge and being woman
The center members bar grinds
Who had been or would become
Boys night they just want to share the practice
They’re all naked and the mind shine through
What’s on the outside loyalty that’s designed
And the pleasure and the next it’s the little things
Location is not necessarily--bam, scribble
Who is fulfilling their job is on my sleeve
To the extent that art can bring people together
Allowed more than just a sandwich
Spirit and living under the sky
Each environment liposuction money
How does one dream
Police and angry neighbors
When asked why you are here


Before there was social media
There was a field

When will a field be for us?
The forest surrounding it 

Is a sudden frame
For the awareness we may disappear

Like the subject of one of Ashbery’s poems
Until we are just a ghost of form

Until this is the opposite of seeing a ghost
These figures laughing in the sun

Distracted by a slogan no one can see
When nature never was


You learn to love the longing 
He rewrote me back in

Being displaced by geography
It’s like we bring the distance

The string got cut
Imagine that string falling

Imagine the distance it took the body
To do the body

She had washed his hair
Your body is no longer you

Kissing the lips
Blueness eternally corporeal

And the way it looks
That snapping of no more longing


I think what you’re trying to say
Is that we’re growing apart
And we don’t even know it yet

We are growing closer
Trying to formalize this moment
Inadequately with a camera

While the sun’s at your back
The trees make for a kind of theater
Like the eyes could be everybody’s

And this is what we mean
By the limits of a socialism
That hasn’t even appeared yet

Or disappeared before
We could register it
Create a prosthesis for realism

By pointing, cloaking the present
With a time no less real
Because we were

Its only evidence,
String of our revelation
String of our not knowing

String of our wondering
Who didn’t I miss when
I looked back

When “I miss people
I haven’t even met yet” (D. Ashford)
What fields will be for us?

To what future communities
Will you belong
In your dreams? (B. Boone)