Day is good
What is day
What is the good in day?
I don't feel much joy in day
Many people are unhappy
Day is a burden
When you have to work
There is no joy in work
Joy, is in something else
Pleasure in the day is taken
Day is given
But it is earned
Counting is for mediation
I wonder if indigenous people had anxiety
Or doubt in their spiritual faith
Or what dissent looked like
I don't want to look it up
And why aren't we all indigenous?
Or why your mother is an alcoholic
Or why everyone is unhappy
And wants to talk about it
As a way to bond
Our ambivalence about the day
is the texture of our borders.
Outlines, vibrating every morning.
Vibrating every morning it is watched.
Friction so our edges stick together
Wind then drops
Our skin then drinks the warmth
The rock is hollow
The shade is still cool
It became very important to have a book
Something you could hold in your hand
The thing that was there when you were not.
It became important to have a name.
A place to stand identifiable
a plot to call out from
Amongst the tufts of people, hazy
Ready to scatter
Thin and noncommittal
Rhizomatic-lite, like carrot roots
Improved and unimportant
And always gone unless regarded
Important as an un-book
Unimportant as a name
A plotted tuft,
A matted scatter
Non-prehendable, compensating in a linear dimension
tufts of people, ready to matter
the principles governing the world of the soft
will soon command the world of the hard
Violence of wholeness
Procession with strawberries.
Of rainbow flag
Sun streaming heavenly through windows of a church, the camera pans
There is softness
Subcultural pictures adorn the walls
The medicine is not enough
The military is not enough
Unselfconscious acts of creation
The men told us,
Thinking they were gesticulating for the greater good.
Every act has a history and a source
Kids are self-obsessed and not really new
No one is new next to a device
The men wanted to destroy the interior
Sniper, secure the perimeter
Espionage Enchanted Forest
Close your eyes for 300 years
Red and green, brown and midnight, virgin corn a color
Your arm still bleeds
America is unwieldy
A broad flat land
Full of nothing in the middle
Lifted with palms, it breaks.
Her voice reinscribes
A beautiful, wholesome song
Called from pain and combined
Washed in night by her harmonies.
2016 by Elsa Brown