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By Edwin Torres

Here at the end of the edge, the terra sin mecca, and all us poets trying to get a word in before the month is gone. Before the mouth disappears with all our people stranded on the other side. And the earth’s decision to call it a day. What is there to do when cataclysm is as slow as breathing? If this was a proper war we’d see the results immediately, but this here’s a slow burn isn’t it? Has this trajectory been enmeshed in our dna since before kingdoms, or just since the salt in my beard? The bees, thankless guardians of our food supply, dying off…an earthquake here and there…a volcano spitting up dirty tornados…a direct fault-line-connection from that one to a hundred times bigger one…O Katla my Katla, the blind telegrams we have injected into your soil. There is only so much a planet can take, no?

There is only so much a blog can take, an audience, a frame for your proper day. Is this, has this been, for anyone who wants it, a frame, a salve, a whole day? For the reviews, the activations, the stories, the journals, the multi-medic huzzahs, the clear views, the cloudy tendrils that connect us all to each other? What happens if we don’t fly anymore, grounded prehistoric terrapins. Our journey back to ships again, if the waters hold out? Slow down, is what will happen buddy…slow…down!

Orbit sage, omnipresent calliope, jesters in funeral gear, poets poets poets. What will happen to the words when a smoke of contradictions release debate as healthy ash, and our only travel is fiberwire…forcing an internet implosion, an undercurrent of hidden language redefining the human condition? Will hackers control poetry, viral bit-charms in html code? Everything on micro-chip, hyper-text will replace books because books will take too long to ship…astoundingly simplistic? Where do we put all this knowledge, all this tremendous flow of faith and carnage? Forget about family, the answer, too private and paleontific…what do I do with my daily commute once I have nowhere to go? The birds and bums that invigorate my steps? The small crimes that stand out when the big ones are so natural?

I’m not screaming for help here, am I? That happened already, a long time ago…in the words, the work…that’s where it happens, right? Where raw sensibility gets dressed in glyphics. Where secrets take on long tales imagined as language and line breaks. See, I’m not asking you about the asking, just asking the teller to be quiet, so I can hear the response…maybe affect the structure of my output. Take a look at what’s inside, using nature as a guide, to just…let go. Wait, here’s a chance to save someone…

…excuse me ladies and gentlemen, sorry to interrupt your ride, not looking for a hand-out but a leg-up, here on this side of the grass again, on your way home, ladies and g’s, please enjoy my version of mj’s out of my life, some redemption for your ears, please show ya love, anything, a quarter even a penny, you may not think a penny, but anything ladies &…

little orb. terror snort. spooner devil. tempter port. thistle brush. invasion wing. leader. wing leader. And my boy, asleep on the living room couch, with a tape recording of my voice telling him stories. And my love, asleep on our bed, with a recurring dream of us when we were flying. Why now, to feel active in the walk? To stir up the filtering capacity of a huge gathering, a nation of writers, collected under one roof for four days. Celebrating the work that does the work, the architects of change.

The molecules align for the gulp. The air doesn’t warn anymore, just says I’m here, are you? Show me how your day moves you, moves through you. Takes so much to get through a day, to put words to something approaching thought. What you must be going through, earth. Your process aligned with mine. What poem to tell when the ground won’t stop?

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Posted in Poetry News, Uncategorized on Wednesday, April 21st, 2010 by Edwin Torres.