..from THE TRANSITS OF REVELATION… ‘Magazine Minds, Confectionary Lives, and Cold Souls in Café Society’

 

These are the days of holy rage; the nights, of broken thunder. The numberless,
specific insanities that pull your mind right under: total potentiality.
You know, don’t you? Who can’t gain weight, ain’t got no appetite. You can’t pick, you can’t choose but you do: whatever emboldens, enshrines and establishes the lowest common denominator. Your god of decay.
Meanwhile I’m vanishing invisibly – can’t sleep at night, and before evening’s day I am all awake.

Where drunks stumble and lurch; slur my daylight mind in ancient doorways, forever with us.
Of course, it’s everyone except you. Fear being another tightrope.
I shall disappear. The jewels of truth light my way through empty towns, hollow streets.
There are no deals. I left everything behind that would not touch my sunken eyes. In this I am blind, the wounded thief.
You rule like life is your death.

Who would be the orphan and limping stepchild, ascribed with insulting logic?
Hadn’t I assumed the debt that was once always my badge and refuge? I did not want these signs of genius undermined and botched due to lost affection: or losing what you never had, a haunting.
Another apocalyptic howling at the moon, screaming at the living. Who never laments or complains. Who by consumption sustains.

Unborn flesh torn by desire and the desireless.
Physical distances I contemplate as loosely as lost spirit encounters where self-consciousness bows to tie the ribbons of my shoes.
Vision. Life never was the jingle of bells, living never the property of those alive.

Above all else, passion informed.
But how – can I ask – do you care: how many dollars for how much, those objects of your impersonal lust. There is no daven, mavens.
And me with my eye trouble, my insomnia, my depression. Mere symptoms.

Poetry the next disavowal by sodden lugs and lumps abandoned in coffeehouse condominiums, esthete shelter-bombs.
Who are not satisfied with a life of anonymity.

Who require new distraction, always.
A pleasant death, for T.V. minds. Pilgrims of no progress recognizing no signposts in their intrepid research into the divine.

The rest: morbidly dull, virtuously sadistic, and wholly masochistic as a result of not cornering the market on sensitivity.

Lot’s wives: you have had my company for so long you even believe we have not been fucking in mid-air.

Dreamers of an everywhere downtown, the neon nightmare: dummies, doppelgangers, jerks, stooges, nerds, zipperheads… plus a few second banana intellectual epileptics, emotional fascists, and spiritual tyrants.

At least none try to borrow a cup of sugar, although I can’t really be sure of the neighbors.

 

©Dean Baker

 

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