A more interpretable ark than this
Blood is song your party
Apprenticeship of what one can’t have
Changed to money usury and the
World what was worth having
Ends up broken yesterday’s news
Like the blue of earth
Seen from outside atmosphere like
An egg we must begin
Anything can be charged with value
Changed to money Madonna of
A different blue
Still there is not
Just failure and despair in this world
Corruption of the flesh, forgotten sex
Still blesses our other names.
Does the Document Promise?
—for Steve Siegel, in remembrance
Crying onto the documents doesn't make for very good metadata
Do you believe me when I tell you I am crying while I type this poem?
"The introduction of writing does not teach us how to remember better, just gives us an excuse to forget," said the Pharaoh to his scribe upon presentation of the new invention
All the tenses of this earth are wrong today
Wondering if everything in heaven will be searchable or whether it will be like totality
No need to search because everything is known instantly, all good and cruel deeds like angels on the head of a pin, even stupidity, because it is part of knowing
Crying into the file folders, documents remind us everything will one day be lost or ruined or totally without context
What will become of promises, and do things also make promises?
Does the document promise?
I would like the tense of the promise to be the tense of the poem I am dedicating to you, just as soon as I've written it
For, as the artist Jerome Caja says in reference to his many friends and lovers who died of AIDS: "I don't do stuff for the dead. I keep promises."
Now that everything becomes retrievable—notwithstanding totality—I am crying into the index, soaking it with tears
I am crying into a pattern of search and retrieval and losing everything because you can't be here.