Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Same Time

In cold war school, 4th grade, we had “current events.” We performed newscasts in class, took turns reporting what we’d found at home in the newspaper. And then, I guess, we talked about it. Today we do this as adults on facebook and twitter.

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There was a massive strike in India last Friday. The fact squeaked through all the plutocratic noise, a blip I’ve clung to as infinite. Would you tell me about it?

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Indiana Jones, tumbleweed, rolls down the street, totally whole. Don’t look back, Mr. Jones. Take all the Dr. Phils with you, turn down a side street and I will meet you there with open trash bag.

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“The universe will never happen,” says Heriberto Yepez. I love the closure as how many millions open other books the same time I close mine.

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When I hear “universe” I think “union”. I scrape the bottom of a jar with my spoon, a dry tongue.

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It’s not what I’m missing that hurts, but this endless need to become something else against mass expression of collective powerlessness.

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Enough, clearly, is not enough.

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the pears are the pears
the table is the table
the house is the house
the windows are the windows

the car is the car
the roads are the roads
the streets are the streets
the white line is the white line

the curves are the curves
the thigh is the thigh
the knee is the knee
the arms are the arms

the eyes are the eyes
the mouth is the mouth

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Ted Greenwald said that. It got me here, the poem, dropped me off, hey thanks for the ride.

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The mouth is a way out
The moon is a fat dime
Exact change only

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I was there in the painting with the gulls on the rock. We wrote our names on the rock to be there with each other.

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“Common” means moving + changing together.

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“I miss your angry heart,” you text from across the country.
“I miss your angry heart,” I text back.

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“We cobbled it together,” I said about another relationship. When I talk about my working life, I say “I’ve cobbled it together.”

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Our lives paved by gigs, the news evaporates quickly. The ground is shaky. Shaky quickly, we heart our friends’ transmissions. Do these tiny solidarities add up?

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There’s no such thing as a “gig” economy. It’s a scab economy, long been, sustained by the government.

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I like it when all my friends post pictures of the sunset at the same time.

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Will we find a way to throw our cobbles at the right people at the same time?

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During the Q&A of a recent poetry reading, older poets started talking about dodge ball as if it were a game that younger poets had never played, as if the game were extinct.

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“Common” means moving + changing together.

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When I was a kid we played a game in the schoolyard called “suey”—short for suicide, I learned later—in which we pegged the shit out of each other with a tennis ball. The more you dropped the ball, the more you got pegged.

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Gus, the Pennsylvania lottery groundhog, says “Keep on scratchin!”

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If you see your own shadow, it means love as refusal. It means love as refusal so you can drag your sorry ass out of bed in the morning.

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“Common” means moving + changing together.

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We organized our shadows into love as refusal, and the day followed.

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Imagine being more than affect in a time of mic drops.

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Is this thing on?

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Let’s sit down and watch our pay go up.