American No Net

There was an item on the counter,

Rarely used and barely functional,

Among other odds and ends, some sharp,

Some broken, some wired, some edible.

It was getting late at night, that time

For which an age of electric lights

Had gifted us with obsidian

One-way mirrors imprisoning us.

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Small Thought Drawing Evening Blinds

The battle poems are vivid,

Whether in language you know

Or language in translation,

Which, if the translation’s good,

Always remains slightly strange,

A third language of its own,

Far from the original

But not entirely your own.

Could be Homer or Whitman,

Any of the Great War ghosts

From Rosenberg to Sassoon,

And so on—the battle poems

Are vivid, ashes and groans,

Dismembered screams and gurgling,

But weirdly the most haunting

Lines on war lean domestic—

Humble as a button, slow

Dusk a drawing down of blinds.

Beetles, Moths, Silverfish, Book Lice, and Mold

One author lists the enemies
Of codices of papyrus
And vellum. Even bricks crumble.

Leaving aside people who know,
More or less, what they’re destroying,
The powers inherent in words,

What damages birch bark, bamboo,
Silk, and parchment are, in the main,
Just hungry. Moths need to lay eggs.

Their larvae, like mold, need to grow.
None of them care about the words,
Unless some kind of god’s in them,

Some kind of text-hating demon.
Meaning, the ghost of Claude Shannon.

Already through Many Lands

No marmot, no hurdy-gurdy,
How well will you beg supper now?

Lean on prosthetic devices,
Articulate use of each crutch.

You’re helpless, but you have value.
You’re not violent. You’re not mad.

You’re good at discoursing in rags.
No one would pay you directly,

But can you make them feel they’ve gained
Something from your conversation?

Do you not beg too overtly,
Not make promises you can’t keep?

Someone may take pity on you.
Tonight you’ll get to get some sleep.