LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Chris Stroffolino

Now that It's April and January Is Back in America

The motion of a myth mattering more
Than the myth of motion, mattering
More than matter. To make matter matter ...
To take the name of brain and shove it,
Shove off. The ship of state, what sinks
When every particle waves --

We don't have to OD on the solitude
We begrudge, though the relationship
The urge for comparisons has with feelings
Of regret seems to last forever. Plus
The popping of the balloon is the desire
To abandon ship, to miss the boat by
Calling one's boat the sea. Allegedly,
"La Bamba" means "I am not a sailor,
I am a captain, I am a captain." And then
We get to the king of kings thing
As we pass another burger
Oh we should treat ourselves better!
The stanza that never ends.

So many threads to pick up. Enough
Ivy climbing the walls to ignore,
To invoke the draft we feel to forget.
Does anybody remember to feel? Has
anybody seen my love? I don't care
What I care about until responsibility
Seems to be a drab way of putting what
Grounds me if remembering has everything
To do with identity and love loses
No more than it gains in the personification
Like a hot windy day that can happen everyday
Even without the fixed boundaries
That fool us into what uncomfortably
Passes for mutuality, but based in fear,
Faithless fear, not without good reason
And our own house dressing
A selling point for what may be freer
In less capital-intensive solitude
Unless we get a kick admitting
We love to see life as nothing but money
Shots that seem to get harder to find
And so we try to stand on the prophetic point
Like it's the end, having got further into
The light as we're accustomed, as if it's
Early spring & we think we can leave
More than winter behind.

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