Sunday, September 27, 2020

"Donald Trump" and Simulacra Donald

"The simulacra is never that which conceals the truth—it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true." -- Ecclesiastes, quoted & adapted by Jean Baudrillard 

Donald's tax returns reveal that he is The Kardashian President: a soulless ghost who is famous for being famous.  The only time  Donald did not lose hundreds of millions of dollars was when he was getting paid to pretend to be rich – on The Apprentice, through related merchandising and through endorsement deals. It is the greatest magic trick in American history. You play a character who is supposed to be the real you, but is not, and you are paid unspeakable sums of money for your representation of this person who does not exist. As usual, Jorge Luis Borges foresaw a precursor to such a turn of events. He wrote about a map that becomes so detailed and developed that it finally overtakes the actual territory, replacing it with its copy. What Jean Baudrillard points out in his essay that references the Borges fable is that the simulacra of late stage capitalism do not even have an original that they are portraying -- just as there is no real brilliant, rich businessman for Donald to portray. As we see, there is no actual "Donald Trump," there is only the simulacrum Donald. And reality bends to accommodate the simulacrum Donald.



Tuesday, September 22, 2020

Others

Those I like
And those 
I don’t 
Not much sense                                               
To it usually
A hat tilted perhaps
Upward a bit
Too much 
An awkward gait
There was once
A tall gangly
Guy ubiquitous
In Milwaukee
I’d see him
Going in and out
Of pharmacies
And bookstores
Sometimes toting
A guitar
Or a handful
Of his mimeographed
Poems about sunlight
Hitting the river
I didn’t like
“the cut of his jib”
I was forced 
To speak to him
Once
And I noticed
I liked him
Years passed fast
Like tides overtaking
A holiday shore
He saved my life
One winter
When I was dying



Wednesday, September 9, 2020

American Ghosts

They breathe the violet
Onto the flowers
Ride the tops
Of freight trains
Crossing the west
Yelling faintly
In the tunnels
American ghosts
The loneliness
Of choked creeks
And fallen hotels
They run endlessly
The green hedge mazes
Of steel titans
American ghosts
Look at us
Through the eyes
Of Washington Lincoln
Hamilton Jackson
Whisper old hymns
The names of racehorses
American ghosts
Ride the backs of bullets
They think this might
Deliver them
It does not
They must watch
New American ghosts
As they are made




 

Friday, July 17, 2020

COUNTDOWN

We stayed up late enough
To smell the bread on the wind
From the factory bakery
The president is hawking beans
From the White House
His smile looks like a star exploding
Men are walking into all night gas stations
And breathing onto candy bars
They’ll kill you if you say a word
Vauhxx Booker was chased into the Indiana Woods
By men of my “race” and they had
Tail pipe fire sparking in their eyes
Their voices were lava dust and diesel
Big bellies bouncing, threatening arms swinging
I didn’t think the fall would look like this
The same way the nation rose up
By threatening by killing
By lunging then leaping into death
Because dying is easier than living
And killing seems easier than loving


Thursday, June 18, 2020

summer 2020

8 silent
      minutes  
44 silent
       seconds
to remember
       George Floyd

people seated on the street
downtown Chicago
     birds
             a breeze
                    a distant chopper

no words

8 silent
      minutes  
44 silent
       seconds



Thursday, May 21, 2020

music and crushes

my whole life has been
music and crushes
hard to tell
which starts where
the elliott smith
line of notewords
that sparks like
a firefly
looping around
a pond
and someone
seen for sunlight
seconds walking
through a door
can’t break
them apart:
firefly/song/crush 
surging the same
in ‘78 or 2020
only the songs
are different