By J.J. Tindall
Holiday II: The Wizard of Is
Poems can be kind of
a pain in the ass.
You walk a line
between obscurity
and obviousness.
I like to make music
and sometimes meaning
gets obscured.
Kind of a pain
in the ass.
When I feel deeply
I suspect others
might feel it, too,
can maybe relate.
The poem is an attempt
at communion.
Yeah: an attempt
at communion.
Sometimes I feel deeply
that the mind
works too hard
to find meaning.
This is normal.
The world can seem
like the blasted steppes
of Titan,
hurtling around Saturn
void of voice.
This moon orbits its home
perpetually, relentlessly.
This is like the mind
as a lathe, honing
the raw wood of perception
into shape
with meaning, with
purpose, with hope.
A machine of
perpetual motion,
shearing homely driftwood
into lean, lithe baseball bats.
Like everything’s gotta be
a goddam lean, lithe baseball bat.
Jesus: it gets old.
Stop the lathe:
I wanna get off.
Just for a little while.
Stop the spin,
freeze the frame.
Dig “is,” as is.
Enough: beautiful as is.
Yeah: sometimes I wanna be
The Wizard of Is.
A poem can be kind of
like a sculpture.
Too obvious, too obscure.
But sometimes, sometimes
they nail it.
DuBuffet? Please.
Picasso? Well.
Oldenburg?…Yes.
OH yes: West Madison
Street, the Social Security
Center? Now: I know
what that is.
Obvious, perhaps,
but to me it sings.
I’m the Wizard
of what that is:
fuckin’ baseball bat.
Couple hundred feet, latticed steel,
big-ass, motherfuckin’
baseball bat.
Now: I can relate to that,
I can commune with that.
It’s like the artist
kinda thinks like I do.
Not through me, not
above me, not beneath me.
Big-ass, motherfuckin’ bat.
I like it like that.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on December 19, 2011