ERIC CONROE


PLEASE RISE

This certainty
is certainly a form of hatred
strange they
should love its light
and title, feed
themselves an image
of perfect moderation
post tenebras lux for a people
loving ascension ad nausea
currents ever upward
selves escaping complete
molecular re-integration
into all matter – not
likely. but maybe
a life of sheer march
into doubt is itself
certain and a rut
of dogma where
whatever it is you have
experienced, imagine
all the opposites.
A reckless profundity
that threatens all the
times you feel sure
manages also to keep
you strangely afloat
with the fervor
of religious people
at night in rented space.
Portraits of an addict’s
restraint massed against
those without
sufficient dogma,
well-meaning folks
all a-throat now
camp emotionally
clothed under the
wrong laugh caught
pathetically in a joyous
mistake flowering
hell-pit of opinion
placid replay
between the ears
the event is wonderful
cannot be entered
becomes awful drowned
in hate’s formalities
pair off or die
gentle for later
with a magnetism that
will likely always cripple you.
 
 
 
 
WALK

Say that nature has no opinion
and that the names of things out here
are rendered to their right
and panoptic position floating above
nothing, above what seem just
like trees. And that constant near-constant
refusal to name was the state
we instead paid to get into,
free from the aggressive this has happened
of the outdoor moment, observing
our words repelled, handed back to us
through the grass in kansas or maybe
utah, past the gnarled bodies
of failed trees, inside the hours
of resplendent oddness that I killed
with a few idly chosen words.
Multiple horizons, just lines
not ready to be assigned
to the pit of feeling: a small, steady

Hacking sound in the wilderness.
I will no longer hurl adjectives at a tree
or bury in an interesting field
my desire to be compared to,
to be admired in, the assertive world of flame.

I will suppress my desire to personify.
I will acknowledge more distance than I cover.
 
 
 
 



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