O Opulent Spring just a week away!
O local details so favored by poets chronicling the foot traffic of reality and all these toy sums changing hands.
O arc’d abstractions that glow along the curve of the globe also
revered by poets.
O the itch to make an account of it all.
To tell the story of my century and how it ended.
Of my friends and brawls and the Asian Flu and Long Term Capital Management.
Of books and books and you know who’s beautiful language.
Of my century from dada to Prada.
Of my century that began in the end you are tired of this modern world.
Of the century that ended when I wrote this poem on the day Jean Baudrillard died with opulent spring just a week away.
O opulent spring o century obituaries.
O century that confused the shopping arcade and the Museum of the Present.
I loved noodle stands home-made poetry books songs no one would admit to liking the reverie of the negative decrepit movie houses Viocodin stock market crashes and the streetsigns in fifteen cities.
What were once facts are now feelings.
Horace mentions the tears of things and we would like to set out a bowl of milk and coax this idea into the theater of the present.
Meaning flows backward from the period so the century ends before it begins.
What were once facts are now feelings and so we bid farewell to the swans and manifestoes and the swans in manifestoes.
I loved the palindrome and the ourobouros and the subway system turning back on itself.
Century where I salted my heart with the money of the absolute!
© 2008 Electronic