To the man on the street in front of
my house, idling
in a white Chevy
Silverado—revving it
a few times
while
listening to Golden Earring—
I want to shout
a few things
from the sidewalk:
science
is observation!
art is just
a specific arrangement!
information is only
estranged experience!
the next Buddha—will be
all the people!
But what good would it do?
The only things
he'd be able
to home in on
would be—the ends
of my sentences,
the raising and lowering
of my hands
and my eyebrows
in narrow and offbeat patterns
before their inevitable return
to stasis—as if
the goal of all sound
was just: the location
of our own bodies
in endless
waves of blind ocean;
as if
the goal of all our music
was silence.
