"Beauty In The Basement"

It’s like
when the right amount of sun gets let in through the blinds
and it’s a sensation in the brain not unlike forgetting

until all I can remember is
Mom
in the kitchen
smiling like dinner is the answer to all the world’s problems
and I think: the smile itself could do the trick

But most of the time I just see Mom
loving, guiding, intelligent
but hardly something that would bring me to my knees in tears

Or in Red Square
where all I can remember is the sun
the lawlessness with which it shines on young teachers and scientists and activists and organizers and freaks and artists and poets in training
youth, nudging us out the door
to look for something that, on a day like today, could be around the next corner

But most of the time it just looked like another day of work or waiting
like yesterday and the day before
my mind recedes and my senses reign; rain, even when the clouds do not

Or in a room full of strangers
when one suddenly makes herself known
by the sheer contrast of her outline
to the blurry paint that ripples in reverence to her every gesture
the dimensions of the room ebb and flow
as though it is wrestling with her stride, and losing
I have a millions questions for her and nothing is stopping me from asking

Yet more often these strangers look to be in no mood
for interviews
and the dimensions of the room stay quite in tact

Or when I look in the mirror and see nothing
no shell, no rules, no cop
to keep me from the world

But more often I see a man with a semblance
Tired and young
in need of the kind of rest you can’t get by sleeping

Or when the music plays
and the bass pulls me
on a rope comprised of mathematics
the rhythm of God’s hour glass
melody is a tongue in my ear

But usually it’s just a novel
whose words get thrown in the pile
coal in the furnace
to open my eyes and walk

The beauty has become so bleak, now
The beauty has become so ephemeral, now, that is nearly ceases to exist
and
just as important
it nearly ceases to champion the rigmarole in their demented fisticuffs
the ones who conditioned themselves with no need for televised assistance

The ecstasy has become so ill, now
That it is literally handed out
in pills
no longer abstracted from its original source
but cloned
masquerading as tangibility

Robbed of fire,
we live by the heat of smoke

As we burn, let us find the invincible thrill of the act itself
To hell with fire, where it belongs
Our thrill is invincible!
Fervor knows no political party
Our thrill is invincible!
The dissolute have found no key in their liquid morality,
that they may flow beneath forbidden doors
this liquid is (merely) stagnant urine
Our thrill is invincible!
The brazen have no claim on my bowels
Our thrill is invincible!

Beauty is in the basement
Beauty has just been fucked
Beauty puts flowers everywhere and it’s not cliché it just smells pretty
Beauty has been on the farm for a week, abandoned clothing and forgotten how to be shy

Today’s beauty will be written about for years
and this is somewhere between tragedy & triumph
Because every day,
it lies in the basement

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