sunset debris

Can you tell that I am writing on Easter? That I have Terry Riley on the stereo? That I am typing up the letters of Paul Metcalf? That I could insert anything, say anything, in this space? But that to say it is to exclude other possibilities? Is it love or fear? How do you tell them apart? How do you know she comes from New Jersey? Does it surprise you that people are fragile, that one thing goes wrong and a whole life destructs, that it happens all the time? Do you know the story of the man who drowned in a vat of molten chocolate? Do you know the difference between an elephant and a loaf of bread? Do you recall the day at Disneyland when you heard that Ty Cobb died? What were you doing when you heard about JFK? So what? What are the non-cognitive aspects of the city, of the elbow, of the question? Why must we be relentless? Should I look for the borders to this poem on the page or in my life? What is it about that downer, that it should leave me so hung over? Why do I sweat so, all the time? Is not what we experience now just one another's limits? In what way is your selfishness a shell, an impenetrable thing? Have I not thus left myself open to such abuse? Why is it that I am unable to separate anger from desire?

Ron Silliman, "Sunset Debris"