Analog 
 
What kind of person creates something
from nothing, creates and sustains:
in sum has value in proxy? Today,
his stock of self-reliance is trading low.
 
The subterfuge has been quarried
down to a few hard facts. Behind
the aplomb of image, behind the wit,
 
the charm, the coy mystifications
of remote knowing and occultic
practice, lies a liability. He generates
nothing, and in spite of himself,
confuses copies for originals.
When it comes down to himself,
that vacuum of preoccupation,
worried and groomed and volatile,
 
he has no clue but a face for all
occasions. On this occasion, he lies
to himself about lying to himself,
and hopes that others have felt
this way, behind the classics
from which he feels he has nothing
to add. Even if he did, he would
forget that he is an analog
in an age of digits.
 

 


Malaise

 

The gloss
of malaise plucked from the pulp
of to die for ones art,
liberates no trope
from clichˇ whatever the consensus built
in regret:
 
for no one will care that we were unfit
for the crass of trend, nor that great
books line our walls and that we belong there
to expose what we long to say
about innards and heart.
 
We are owed nothing and nothing is fair.
We tell ourselves that our ideas are not commodities,
that we will not perish unpublished.
It's just a lack of confluence.
We haven't met the right people,
have not been discovered, only to discover
ourselves sitting naked on a curb
in the rain. 
 

 


Extreme

 
In a culture of extremes,
excess glares and rushes
in all directions,
to waft like an odor,
                              until
the next extreme
is thrown and the next
after that-- a pipebomb
of billboard adds
tearing skin--
 
we're impossible,
psychotropic, 
out of breath,
wanting.
 

 


Simplicity

 

With you simplicity is primordia
and afflatus, but you don't call it that,
never would, simply too much syllabic
magic and not enough hours in the day
to eclipse the pace. Simplicity is not your
intent, it is your way, your color and
sovereign shape and rhapsody of day
in another day melding into simple sound.
Nothing transcends anything else. Work
is terminal. The News is on. You are busy.
Alone, sometimes not: complain. No therapy.
Not for you, just memory, clear and fresh
like a glass of clear, cool water.
 

 

    © Daniel Y Harris 2009