THE DAY
It was a day like a piece of debris falling into the eye. It hurt as much to look at as it did to look away from.
2016 was the year we walked into our computer screens. The reality of that unreality is such that we swim in a teeming soup of excess and phlegm and two-dimensional representations. It is increasingly impossible to tell what is true, what is honest. There are no eyes to gaze into, no tone of voice to examine with our innate faculties and the subtle fields around the heart and body. Hold each other tight in the love of genuine presence and nothing can enter that. Better to die in the open palm of love than to live in the barren cold living-death of hate and fear.
“A Poem Written for the American Inauguration, January 2017”
The bright dark tarp of america
Is a single solitary instance
A wet dream
Thick as moss
And yet thinner than air
There is only one day
Each and every day
And the degree to which
This damp paper map
Clings to the land
Is up for question
At each fresh breath of morning
This afternoon it flickers
The evening, dims
If a million more should turn their
Projectors elsewhere
To the warm other-realities
Of a tight living room
Five or twenty beating hearts
Or two
Or the lone captain of a dream empire
In blissful emptiness
Beyond the outside of any measure
In essential loneliness
To wander, unfettered
To that most unreal blue meridian
Of longing
To die a thousand times in
Wet paint
In ripe fruit
As painlessly as we are meant to
So lushly and perfect
As beings without loss
Perched atop a timeless instance
And then return to those smaller pools of being
Two
Five or twenty
To reanimate the stars
The tarp is petrified
As it starves
Merely a single growth of grass
The weather
Beats down upon it
Cutting
Throwing off in a wind
The instance
Stands not a chance
In the face of
Infinity
Tim Darcy’s solo album Saturday Night is out February 17 via Jagjaguwar.
