Upon reading an article in The New Yorker, six months after its publication, by Dan Chiasson, about The scrap poetry of Emily Dickinson; thoughts marched in and seized the space waiting for me to finish. I don’t know why these particular thoughts showed up at this particular time. This is not written in the style of Emily Dickison, because I could only dream of such talent, but were scrawled across the pages of the magazine much like scrap poetry. This is only more bad poetry from a mind that cannot contain the words and sounds that seige it –
Some — would
In this lifetime,
Leave an imprint,
Bathe in the Fountain of Youth!
The power of Time!
The world cares little, If we seek
To destroy our means of existence with
Overgrown Avarice and Ignorance.
The shores encroach and
Those who live in the space between
Are doomed perhaps.
Earth will still turn, Winds will blow, Tides will ebb and flow
Gravity will persist —
And will you — or I?
Does it matter, Does it
I once thought to Print was to be accomplished –
To become immortal —
Shadowed simply by Homer, Shakespeare, Dickinson —
And yet — some iteration. 2.0
Then, After —
The birdsong called out to me,
The stars and planets blazed a writ upon a hazy sky,
Ocean water unfurled
To meet me where I was.
I burn no longer with yearnings –
Impatient and grandiose
I am not
I will be and
Then I won’t —
or will I, will any of us —
Traveling in this makeshift Nature
Leaving Digital traces
Across the span of seconds, minutes, hours…
We are the only thing missing.
Dust to dust
Across Time and Space.