Concerning: Generic Water

In 1986,
we could drink out of the tap

and it was considered barbaric

               (well water as it was)

but it was so good.

That was there, this is now

that everyone drinks in disposable 

pervasive clear canteens.

In 2018,
there was mass poisoning by the sterilizing-

worst case scenario-better safe than sorry so 

saturated with leachating preservatives 

used as a precaution.

Inevitably,

pieces dissolved, as they tend to do

(entropy) 

         in manufactured self-containment-

well, people and plastics became one,

bonded.

In the eighties,

I remember walking home, wading in the creek.

My musty Vans tied by their laces to my backpack strap

after school, Genius, I thought, 

bottled water, readymades, ant farms, crystal gardens,

pet rocks, canned air, and jarred fireflies sealed with a kiss.

I ingest the red woods and taste bliss.

In 1978,
at the grocery store,

the generic brand of anything 

was white or yellow, the basic packaging.

It was good enough, cheaper even

to not say everything.

Also, 

my mother told me I always wanted a toy

and I would toddle up to strange men,
                      (also grocery shopping) 

and ask them if they were my daddy.

Today,
I still return from the grocery store without
everything I need.

My kids asked about the Mexican men posted up

outside Home Depot(s), 

I told them about outside labor

          (fathers on back-order) and say

if Toy’s R Us had this (for lazy parents),

they would still be in business.

Nine-tenths of the time,

poverty and water obey the laws
of thermodynamics.
Both are
Being and Event. 

In 2018,
I am grateful for everything that I never had.

She oft-quoted Nietzsche with knowing

where it came from or

it made me stronger.

I cannot see everything my body does for me, thankfully.

It would be terribly distracting to have transparent packaging,

I believe this would make everyone less appealing.

In 1989, 

I can clearly see my naked feet under the flowing water

of the Little Bear Creek,

rippled sun rolls over the enlarged mole
atop my left foot,

my soles are both slippery, I notice

how the liquid moves in a cool hurry

                 but only I move the stones.

Yesterday

I thought of all the Springs passed,

and my own mothering nearer to

reaching the sea, it has dawned on me
finally,

we are all temporarily employed

Here 

with our shoes, our guns, our molded plastics,

plain packaging

we call watertight-

forgetting this too

is subject to corrosion. 

Artwork: Лесной ручей. Весной. 1890, холст, масло, 75х56 Forest creek. Spring. 1890 {{Creator:Grigorij Grigorjewitsch Mjassojedow}} {{PD-art}} From http://lj.rossia.org/users/john_petrov/96740.html

Sans compunction

No point. No point at the end.

How do you know you are there-

Where?

At the end, I don’t.

(In)³-8

And is it Close or Close? Close.

As meta for unraveling also ravels.

Breathe. I forgot what inspired me.

If used, it still possesses zero dimensions:

Does it matter if there

Or here, or Not? I appreciate the white

                                               Space(s) left by you...

As in, moving targets that spin

seem still, hazy-but fuzzy was her favorite.

How do you know when it is done,

Or the piece is a settled preposition?

Just to suppose, juxtapose those positions,

what if feathers deny making a Pound

is the Emperor Penguin still Dressed (Up)?

They were all thought experiments. I thought they were poems.

A poet cannot leave re-normalization-alone.

I came pre-traumatized, I sat subserviently

and listened for the equi-valence on this side,

punctuated by give and take.

The man said most don't know. As a physicist, he fishes.

His curiosity overflowing banks and boxed cats

and asks the layman to believe in nothing proven safe for consumption.

The stomach still drops in

conceptual elevators

labeled Science and Art

                                   "Going Down"

                                    (rabbit holes).

This poem was composed of notes I took while at an event hosted by the Arthur C. Clark Center for Imagination featuring Rae Armantrout and her condensed chapbook titled "Entanglements" (pub.d by Wesleyan) on April 13th, 2017 (also her birthday). 

Women liberated

Every woman becomes Medusa,

and learns how to become grotesque 

and malign with the glaring intention
to harm every fellow femme or fowl.

All the manly men demanding 

subservience, much more gratitude 

and adoration for being a Hero to 

Humanity.

Mind the Gap, they kindly warn us

of the space wedged between

World and Human-as if we could easily 

misstep
or fall in.

When an atom was split, 

when the uneaten apples fell,

we made matters worse

by being casual observers.

When women went to work,

when women drove-

when they chose-

the family would decay.

The women wanted,
the men desired,
the pairs all 
spun
out. 

"Translation is the art of failure"

Umberto Eco famously noted.

"Metaphor is ritual sacrifice, it kills the look-a-like" 

suggested  Rae Armantrout.

Between two 
worlds

the Space 
keeps us Safe. 




Painting by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 'Women of Amphissa' c. 1887 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.