The Young Prolitariati

What makes this poet speak so?
“The fence throwing down a spray of shadow on which blue and orange birds parade and feed. ”
“it is a hobby of the North American to notice everything that doesn’t work.”
“the sorrow bird singing in the mangrove swamp. Slogans painted on the sewer pipe, sprayed on the mayor’s house: land and sun and ownership and God the conqueror who comes in a raised and gilded throne lifted by the children he had cured.”
“Ecstasy and rapture of the sun.”
“Hey, mister! This is a hand raised up for change: photographed, and taken home.”

what is it he sees in such detail?
the occasional missed “tock” that presages the cosmic clocks final unwind
The edge of the blackest pit of impending doom?
or just the bottom side of the imaginatrix he uses for careful self-awareness and identifying himself to himself, himself.

testing his soul to be certain that it is sufficiently numb before he ventures forth with his senses exposed.

the poet ,in his dank cellar or musty book-insulated library, looking out at the world through a long, lens-capped pipe, focusing on the unanointed, under washed, beneath-pitiful, ennui-inducing, sub-realities; to record stultifying detail in dismal abundance – enough to infuse deep subtext, ambiguity, misdirection and distracting analysis. (I weep therefore I am)

and one day, when the poet finds himself without the pebble in his shoe he will write a greeting card instead of his usual polemic dirge, bending his artful prolix to the task of making Pippa proud and mothers everywhere weep… and finish the laundry.

© 2018 What's That On the Road – A Head
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