Tuesday, October 2, 2018


To the man on the street in front of
my house, idling

in a white Chevy
Silverado—revving it

a few times

listening to Golden Earring—
I want to shout

a few things
from the sidewalk:

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.