Thursday, December 31, 2015

two found poems 2015 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker


Earthlings are fragile, demanding, and germy,
not obviously suited to life elsewhere.

Some people say it's meteorites that fell,
that crashed,
and that this catastrophe splashed up gold.
I don't subscribe to this theory,
but I am sharing it with you.
Now the rivers are polluted and dying,
the government forests cut down,
the groundwater failing.
The river never ended, and the children never grew up.
A time of broken windows.

I daydream about Nancy in my bedroom as I listen to my jazz records:
Dave Brubeck, Chet Baker, the MJQ,
various cool sounds to settle me down.
And yet there's something that I find myself craving these days;
that rude resistance to being sold to,
the insistence that there is, after all, such a thing as selling out.

Sometimes we're knowing about things that we don't know much about at all.


Do not push it with the vegetables.
Those who order the pear-and-kale salad,
curiously wet,
will get what they deserve.
It is unusually barbarous,
and good at Twitter.

by Ron Reed