I’m talking about the things to come

Found a frontier in my | heart || Grasslands | plains | places no human being had ever | been / and we | walked into them

And in the glove compartment, a gun | a valley, the sound of | water, sky full of | white clouds | a crack running through the sun, split in a | broken mirror

She was sitting up under the sheets, I think we’re becoming | friends more than lovers, now  Know all these streets and rooms, and knowledge makes them | ghosts, without | life

Orders of power, the forts we’re asked to carry || But the past is a wilderness, too | there, things are | unprecedented | In a chemical chateau, in | powder and wigs, silk and lace, look from the window of a | little-visited tower, all the facts and the theories | melt into | the haze of a | distant horizon

The future, too, isn’t that a frontier? | Sure, but | everyone’s rushing so fast to | settle there, and I | have always feared and hated | crowds

PARABLE | They loved walls and objects | so their hearts began to fill with such things | stones | minerals | cool | sculptures [fine vehicles] | And this stuff they acquired | cluttered their souls | Their frontiers | were something they bought | Consuming, storing, displaying | objects | they were the curators of their own | hearts | Life was a form of collection | their spirits were vast museums | and the exhibits in their museums | were walled into | separate categories || They nested and archived | many beautiful, irreplaceable things | in basements, and | no one ever saw them | again || All the storms turned to stone, the rivers to | enamel | their daughter to | crystal || Whole cities were engulfed by certainty, entire nations | put in galleries | The god of dolls lived in the museum, and people | ceased moving and thinking || Eventually, there was no need to | venture out of their hearts at all | there was no | exterior || It was airless and nothing moved, but it was home, and they knew | all the streets and rooms

Each moment a jail | Overcrowded | Fetid with the | sorrows we cannot avoid || Each thought a | claustrophobic capsule | drifting through | space | a gleaming | coffin | others | made for you || Safe in | mass-produced dreams | we await the wilderness of a far-off time | a posed | threat || Meanwhile, sparkling gun-men mount up and | ride towards anywhere

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: July, 2012)

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