The concrete bruised flesh of the homeless, frozen and black, thousands
on the brilliant streets of the center of the old universe protesting their status
as economic rape victims, cradling paystubs and shitting on cop cars,
dictatorships and African post-aparthied empires disbanded like so many gangs,
hunted down, and executed. In these future times of holograph phones
and rusted chassies of American-made indentured servitude to our new god, Debt,
I find my thoughts occupied by what it means to write, to feel, to be a Poet,
holiness or something like it and I have to scold my mind for such departures
from what is going on around me. But sometimes you have to move far
from where you once started, light years, sometimes you must abandon one center
and find a new one untethered by time. I don't recognize myself in the mirror
or in old poems. The future and the past are in the same room, but
they have nothing to say to one another. There were so many centers,
identities, blasphemies and loves left on the wayside to what I am now - physical
but not physic, unexpressive and sublimely lonely. And yet these things I've left behind do not define me.
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