Writing is hard today. In the wake of the US invasion of Venezuela it feels like the already shaky ground of world relations has turned to sand. What more is there to say? We live in the age of atrocity. In the wake of it, I reiterate: death to all empires, death to all nations. This is imperative for survival. And maybe especially then poetry is too. I don’t know. As for this poem, it feels like a sequel of sorts. I still don’t know who these people are, or if any of them are Cindy, like in the song. I like how this one feels heavy with narrative. For now I’m trying to vaguely stick with the form of JD’s lyrics. For me that meant a repeating but changing chorus, a distinct narrator with a body and a life, and a structure of 3-4-3-4 stanzas with a larger one that caps it off.
My music recommendation for today is Wild Palm City by the Mountain Goats
Dried River Valley
I have twenty digits on my body
infinite actions in my scope
options spread into the distance
The iridescent oil spills tempt my tongue
with promises of colorful futures
I don’t expect the clean up crew
and when they’re through I’ve never felt better
It’s a desert in here
crop duster spinning ceiling fans
things spilling through windows too small to see
The new world is already here
seems like from now on it’s just us three
the scratched mirror shows grinning visages
and the door behind them has never looked better
We wonder where all the water went
standing in these dry deltas seeking trickles
my feet are firm inside the dirt
the nights here are achingly clear
you wonder when the drought comes for us
is this all that your life was?
And we both wonder why we’ve never felt better