Thursday, June 11, 2009

Poem

Pinball
by Isa Harper

Back & forth
digital 2 analog
seeking the social
n’ finding only
chatrooms full of strangers’
emoticons – self-reflective
digital detritus
on the sea of experience;
not social, only solo
with witnesses.

Even writing now,
an exercise in solo;
when will I be together again?

Bouncing around
this space & sound
of body & time
not mine, but borrowed, I
play my GHEE-tar
and wonder where you are-
my playmates,
my friends,
my lovers,
all gone now – even
those that aren’t. I
log on
to the
digital
an’ I log off
of the
digital
an' I log on
to the
analog, on
to the real world -
not the Facebook reality
where you and me
merge unawares
of other and self;
either we don’t care
or don’t understand
that we should,
but,
as they say:

“I will try
to understand,
either way.”

“& i do
and eye doo
hand eye do
doo doo doo doo doo doo”

The recording remains,
analog 2 digital -

“back & forth &
back & forth &
back & forth
around again”

like a pinball in a game
of Life – surreal &
unlikely and without
an eye to the useful.

An’ I log off to
analog.

ttfn

lqtm

lmao

cqtm

ta ta for now
laugh quietly to myself
laugh my ass off
cry…
quietly…
2
my self.

:)…

Sunday, June 07, 2009

poem

Self-showing
or
Things in themselves
by Frank Hill


Standing,
I pull myself from the floor of Plato’s cave,
insistent on seeking the source of this lie,
the light of which refracts,
projecting dancing shadows
on the walls of my underworld dwelling.

I fall, sick, at the threshold. And now,
with the unwanted help of strangers,
I am dragged kicking and screaming to the lie,
this light that shines and blinds
as the rocks scrape
my knees,
my palms,
the tops of my feet.

Resigned and bodily dropped, I crawl,
too dizzy to look but to the scratched floor
where so many have been dragged before;
slowly, slowly, my eyes adjust to new light,
the lie of which is shown to be
only the self-showing of me
to the world under which I have dwelt and knelt
with my cave-dwelling tribe.

No light,
no lie
brought me to the surface;
force applied and again
applied again
until resistance was only
stone scraping skin
as I dragged myself to the lie above
in hopes of returning with magnificent tales.

I will tell the tale with fear, and hope
that those who’ve stayed behind, or
been dragged a different path, may love me still
and embrace the self-showing
of the sun that I’ve become.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Poem

The Platonic Tradition
by Frank Hill

Pale,
cold,
gray
concept nets
is how Nietzsche
put it;
rationality, a death-trap
for the fishes of sense -
I imagine
the frozen,
calloused hands of
New England fishermen
working at the icy ropes
of Platonic forms,
pulled from leaden
waters,
hands grabbing
the flopping fishes
of sense and slicing
flesh for bait.