Exalt Commisssioned by THE CHORUS OF POETS for "CONDUCTION No. 145: A CHORUS OF POETS, IN THE UPPER ROOM".
God colors: Red & Blue
Sun, River -- Firewater.
Doused flame, purple smoke rises, puffs,
Hardens to stars.
The residue of rain along the waterfront
Show shells -- deep of former selves.
The aurora of sun in corona of eyes.
What's mud in this brilliant hue? Death? Dung? Bell rung?
Jacob's ladder? What's due from mankind's mundane ambition?
The motor that makes our purr, our hum?
The ground is prismless treasure
Sans refracted light. It is whole,
Canvas which projects bright.
The scene, play is un-visible.
Breathing, sightless: Sound, like cold, like heat,
Above so below, parallel unbound -- the ether.
There is trinity. Three lines: Vibrant, Muted, Hidden.
This is the world of our designations: hues and humor.
II. THE MAIN PART:
You walk down the street in a New York moment. A walk for you, fleeing for the rest of the country. Should be standing still but NY'ers be down the block. Rush: to the next gig the next thing the next spectacular display. Even when you feel joy -- it's a surge. The life you lead -- if you don't move it, you lose it. There is a clock back there: see how it's round, how all those points ultimately make a circle? The river will swell and recede. And the sun: Why it's a ball! Try to stop it once it gets rolling ...
We've got reservations. We've got to eatsleep. Something, sometimes between swaddling clothes and the singular 300 thread count morgue sheet. Action. Crayons, pencils, pens, computers. Embossed black crocodile belt with sterling silver buckles, cufflinks, catamarans.
How nice to meet you on this inexpensive evening! You of the Brooklyn 99 cent store T-shirt, Conway blue jeans, payless shoe store wedgies. Don't breathe too close. Your breath smells of barbecue potato chips by Bon Ton. It's catching, but er, May I suck up your soul? I need some extra extra special, sold mine for a gold mine. Made a killin'!
Why sho'! My pleasure Mr./Ms. never have enough. Miss worried, misplaced. Mr. Let's both laugh at the poor sap in the middle who can't tell who she/he is. Knowing he's me but hoping it's a case of mistaken identity. Glancing over your way, hands in a half wave ...
Not too far away: There in
the shadows and shade, a collection of laughter at the waste of breath
in this small talk. Whispers of wind, wisps of air,
shapeless pashmina neck scarves,
bodega grocery bags whose handles are curried
by crashing air currents always up, up, and over to that perforated line past Jersey.
Not far there is a morose code:
a dash dot dash of help.
A call to the past, to you
which says: Not too long ago we were so separate
in proximity like each human here. Until the big
and now we watch over hoping that on a night like this
you will come together as volunteers:
Without little auras
as a unified night envelops the dwindling light.
© Tracie Morris, 2005