National Poetry Month Day 6: p. e. garcia

By

p.e. garcia is a contributor to HTMLGiant and Editorial Assistant/Social Media Manager for The Rumpus. They have a good dog. Find them on Twitter @AvantGarcia.

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I Know Somewhere Out There Kenneth Goldsmith Is Looking Up at the Same Moon

& thinking this is remarkably dull,
the world, with one moon, which we can all look at,
continually, & how much can you say about the moon, really,

before the moon becomes the sun | the sun becomes the earth | the earth becomes Kenneth Goldsmith examining himself in the mirror

& thinking, this is remarkably dull,
the human face, is there only one
or billions, & should we be writing about dull things

when there are so many faces staring in the mirror
asking about the moon?

when there is blood in the street,  reflecting puddles of moonlight,
who really has time for poetry or art, who has art for poetry and time,
who has the moon & the human face & who owns the faces

& the fates, the mouths mouthing a point about capitalism,
an idea about art, a mouth mouthing thoughts on the moon?

i’m trying to write poems & read minds
but i feel the full weight of 32 cents in my bank account
& look over my shoulder for White men who might follow
too close

i’m tongue-tied again, buried in theory & bullets
& the moon is still hanging up there, with its skull-face

looking down on me & Kenneth Goldsmith
& all the corpses between us
laid out across the earth end to end

i’m tongue-tied again, i’ve been told the moon is dull
but i don’t know if the moon thinks much of me

& i know no-one gives a fuck about Kenneth Goldsmith
i’ve been living like a river dying, drying up, doing my best to feed
grassroots, expending myself all the more for that

i’m tongue-tied again: imagine my tongue wrapped in circles
around the moon, i’m trying to mouth “this isn’t death, only the moon”

& a poem has never been the moon | the moon has never been
death | death is never art | but if i repeat these incantations
then at least i know my mouth

has something to say


Original poetry published by The Rumpus. More from this author →