Steve Dalachinsky

FAILURE Mirrors    INFINITE WINDOWS     

                                    — “he is an artist without an art” from the film Night and The City

who are we?  
we are those who do not wage war  
but who have war waged in our name
like a garper’s
umbling  hand    a booger’s hand upon our brows

who are we?
we are those who guzzle the gushing sand
drunk and asleep on the blood of slaves
ships sinking by sewer light
in the righteous dawn
by sewer light

who are we?
stinking of success i come 
gushing thru your window
steam
reason
writhing    tunnel of feet

if i blew hate 
ate blue 
saw was
banked rivers
owned banks
swam down hill
and ran up stream
would i qualify as a neutral
country?
would my future be assured? 

who is he?
polishing the moon
people often refer to him as a poet
process 
product
purpose
polishing the moon’s lips
time always fails to surpress itself


good-natured
the act of being good-natured
even-tempered
i have to say that more often than not
a violent storm unveils itself
in time
on time 
for all time
as we face the speakers
ignore the speaker
are blinded by bull horns
bathed in the sewer’s 
warm light
the moon’s polished
eyeballs
within a solution of sound

for instance 
dropping sound on their heads
instead of bombs
until they clasp their ears
in wild ecstasy
or torment
or abandon

who are we?
suicide singers
with a score to settle

aria operator future assured
who are you?
i do not choose to fight 
so you fight for me
you are one of the chosen
many

who am i ?
when the rude boy 
said that she beat me to the top
of the stairs
i pretended not to listen
then 2 blocks later replied
depends upon your point of view


beyond  takes on great proportions
business is small compared to
BUSINESS
caleb writes his # in the corner
of the scrap
days later i copy the scrap into a larger
map made from scraps
i include caleb’s name
but do not remember meeting him
who is caleb?
a liar in a lair on a crumbly rail
acting in my interest somewhere in the
holy desert?  maybe i should give him a call

i am reminded of the bible   who is it that reminds me?
my point of view could have been   her bottom was my top!

before wings   there was mud
6 minutes   60 seconds   per minute  360 perfect 
before  war there were wings
there were unrecorded segments
of bar none 
unwritten scores
balmy spring days
tar pits
time having no way to surpress itself

who am i?
i don’t know i just do it
on a bench
in a field
in jest
& earnestness
in front of the open door
ressurected by amorous light
mumbling into my smile
i just do it

who are we?
will we inherit the weak?
we are those who chose to eat grapes
while others eat dust
if i raped apes
would i become a neutral country?  


i have to say
                      i cannot stand a noisy wind
a sound that carries like restless ghost inside my bones
      fragile restless ghost   mean yet gentle spirit  none-the-less
i have to say 
                      when one loses one’s ability to sense the wind
      one should throw one’s self away    the boner of a ghost inside the restless wind

  i have to say 
                           if something cannot be fixed    dispose of it
          rather than keep it in a fragile state
                 but then again if your arms refused to work  would you cut them off ? 
                 but then again the weight of something dead can cause great stress
                 & something that can’t be mended will take up needed space

who are we
we are functionless things in a world of functions
where other things function for us

i have to say
                      to lose something that can easily be replaced 
                      should not cause one to fret

mars is an acceptable place right now
but i’ve never been one for travelling

the oceans lose their white caps every day
time has a way of expressing itself

who are we?
sludge?
mud?
white caps?
cap guns?
sewer light?
slaves’ bowels?
ok joes g.i.s?

gee i wish someone would help me solve this puzzle
if only i read more books

who are we?
we are steamy windows 
in a railway station  waiting to cluster & clot

keys that open clock gates
aria gluts 
thin sighing plaintive hogs
exploding plasma trails

who are we?
we are those who do not liberate ourselves
so liberators do it for us

i have to say 
i’d rather be imprisoned here
beneath this never setting sun
then be tossed into a vat
of writhing freedoms 

who are we?
head shaking squirming fly away steakfaces
sputtering ashy buggy pool glowers
dreamy closet lung divers
shimmering banners
in emptying fields
unfurling
deadglance explorers
lovers of rot
unsung failures who’ll stick with their story til the end

who are we?
i have to say
that who we are does not matter
that it is what we do that 
counts

i have to say 
that what i say
does not matter
but it’s what i have to say that
counts

who are we?   
i have to say.   who are we? 
i don’t know. who are we?

                           nyc     3/03 - 4/03        

Five More Poems from Steve Dalachinsky

 
 
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