Make More, Not War

So Ezra Pound just reached out of the grave, grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted in my ear: "What you've done is not enough! You have done nothing to move us past where we were! You have pulled us back to the eddies that we struggled for so long to escape!"

And then I wake up.

And then I don't know whether I should be proud of ashamed.

Blue, brown, are orange grumble from the sweater on my bed, threatening to attack if not properly folded and returned to the sweater shelf. The objects of modern life have begun to make demands and it's usually a good idea to listen. We take the dictation of dollars, hoping that after we're done and we have the time to sort out our notes, we'll get a chance to make some sense out of it all. They possess a rhythm, humming with the certain energy of physical desire fulfilled. Their numbers, though not the ones we intend to compose when we write, govern us, with statistical wrath.

I cannot navigate my room, because it has ceased to be a room.

A curator could make a museum out of these found things; found and bought and cherished like a child.

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