Failed Visionary
“At the end of the day, these few fleeting moments
of glory are one’s only reward.”
Performance video from the La Luz de Jesus Gallery, 8/13.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ae2ywWx35ig&feature=player_embedded
I dread the ordeal of enforced jollification,
the pressure of pleasure: those strained circumstances
when something is thought to be wrong with you
if you cannot enjoy yourself under conditions
that are supposedly ideal for enjoyment.
Some people like to have fun.
I realize I’m not that into it.
It sounds tiring.
Passing the various stations,
the vicarious stations,
watching the other passengers get off,
without baggage, at the earliest stop –
once they feel they’ve done their time,
but wanting credit for riding it to the end of the line.
For at the terminal, what awaits?
Just a faded ticket, out of date.
I felt satisfied.
It was an unfamiliar
and unsatisfying sensation.
I wanted it to end.
And it soon did.
Out of all the things
I could have done on this day,
that might have been fun, edifying
or charitable, I have chosen instead
to sink somewhere in flustered haze.
As if anything might be salvaged
from these uselessly plumbed depths.
Just trying to make a connection: http://www.citylightspodcast.com/success-failure-at-the-odd-fellows-hall-with-stewart-home-jarrett-kobek-and-john-tottenham/
Often, around the middle of a week day afternoon,
I find myself considering the connection
between sexual and creative energy.
Torn by futile lusts, I seek refuge
from the vagueness of the day
and the promise of endeavor
in reliable memories and fantasies
that spill, reliably, into sleep.
I do not know the meaning of hard work.
But I know what it means to adhere
to a schedule of diligent work-avoidance
as if it were a regular job: a strict routine
of wandering around and lying down
and brooding over wasted time.
I don’t like to mix business
with anything, least of all pleasure.
If any further proof were needed that nothing is beneath me:
http://artillerymag.com/tottenham-corner/?utm_source=Newsletter+2013%2F07%2F18%2C+9%3A02+
Am I empty at the core or just around the edges?
Are there riches therein? I wouldn’t know.
I’m weighed down in a warm white glow,
crushing the stark yellow dullness of the day
into dust, statically and statelessly drifting
through this haze of rust. Riding the waves
of lostness across the landscape of a desk,
into the bulwark of a threadbare curtain.
John Tottenham 