ROBIN WYATT DUNN - POEMS
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.
Crash out with me
red run run now the reason, and the delight, run now, it is a torrent.
run now, before you become part of it.
before you are one of us.
before these powerful things came over what we are now, what we were, and made them real, or realer than they were.
Hot train over the downpour of reality: I promise you, it's worth it. Come anyway. It's a lie, but come anyway. There isn't any choice anyway. You see, I've already been. In a way, I am you. Coaching myself into the journey I already know I will take.
To sunsbourne, and its districts. To the end of everything.
Tell me, tell me everything. I want to know. Was it as beautiful as you said? Was it as wretched as you said? Was it everything that it could have been? Was it delightful, and supreme? Was it righteous? Dogmatic? Was it the thing I wanted?
It's all right. I know how it is. There is no time, and even if there were, you don't know what to do.
Neither do I. I don't know either. I only know: here we are. I was made for this thing. You could be too. Why not try it out?
Why not say: I too can be this crazy thing, called reality. And reality over reality, with you in it. Shimmering over galaxies and meteors and your lunchbox for the office and the kitchen table and counters and the light, outside, distant and furious and covering the grass and tree with you.
It's all right. I know there isn't anything else we can do. I wish there were.
Revolution is a funny instant, there’s nothing like it.
I've got to try and say what it is. Help me, will you? I need you so much.
- - -
the rain and the rain.
raining on me.
Like a rape victim, not quite sure what has happened. I can forget about it.
I light a cigarette under the protection of the arches to try and forget. Cigarettes are good at that: they want you to forget everything, except cigarettes. Hahaha.
Forget everything with me and come inside. We’re these stony, killing things, morbid and useless, but still breathing, with our festive rites of our bodies and their bruises, bent in to the work, and the regret.
I can't say anything enough to get this story right. It'll just have to be half right.
Revolution. Heartache and foul, fictive, lasting, lingering smoke over the street, getting in your lungs, coughing, in your eyes, you shield them with your arm, peeking through to get your bearings:
Am I on the right street? Is it the right day?
You're on the right street, man. And it could be any day. Better by day than night and so here you are.
Let me tell you what.
Hindering delightful things. Holding back, the axe, to wait, for the return, of love, and its turns, turning, over us, into the truth.
Ha ha ha if only I knew what that was! I could be god.
There are easier things than revolution but harder things too, I think.
The easy part of revolution is: once begun, it's its own thing. You don't have to worry too much about it. It's gonna happen. Like gravity. You just get to decide where you're gonna fall. And where you're gonna climb up.
Climb up with me, over the rubble, in the wet; be careful where you step.
This is Los Angeles but it will be Sunsbourne. I'll make it. I promise.
- - -
Crash out with me over the furious fire of our torrentous century, long loved in furious despair, where lovers drift between rights and great beautiful tears, where we learn about each other's habits.
Logic is no help to me. I could apologize for that, but why? If I lied to you, the story would only be worse. Best to tell the truth.
Which is that I don't know what happened. I only know a part of the how. And the why. The feeling of it. Fury.
Angela had been living with me for six months when it happened. The power was shut off and we couldn't get any wireless.
We started playing a lot of chess, in the street.
There were still food deliveries to the supermarket. No one was asking for rent. Like we'd been forgotten about. This little corner of reality, underneath the rug of war.
“Is it still you?” she asked me.
I laughed. It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.
She laughed too. It was a mistake, my laughing. It made a lot of other things happen. To laugh, or not to laugh? Well, I did.
- - -
It's not enough my telling you; it could be anything. I could be anything. I could kill you, and resuscitate you. I could be your child. I could dive with you into death, and give you the tour. Shining.
Maybe I still will. After this part of the story is over.
The medium may be the message and so is insufficient; we know. I must compress as well as I can. Get as much data as I can into the channel before my transmitter shuts off. But do you know the code? Will you be able to decrypt it?
Can you stay with me as I burn? Hold my hand.
Fire is only one stage, of the transition.
- - -
No love for me is bare, it is concealed, tightly and packed away, in your luggage, in your mind, behind your passport, beneath the floorboards. After the collapse of the state, and the introduction of new armies, when you can smell arrest, underneath your coat, in the lining, in an envelope, written in code,
love waits for a while, to see what is happening.
who wields the weapon and what routes exist out of these trees?
what can I remember?
- - -
Friend, it hurts me in your stalwart lesion, in your bury bucket, in your soul. I hear your voice and I am terrified, because I need to know: will it come for me too? Am I already there?
The police, or the magistrate, or the thugs next door, these chosen things so divined, and arranged, made useful to our enemies, however they may be, do they make you suffer?
I’ll come to you. Tell me how to get there.
- - -
These are the sounds of the guns.
Come with me, under the starlight, for I am here. I am still here.
I can hear the water up ahead, under here. Come on.
Hear the water.
Inside your mind I am waiting, for the moment, to pull out my gun. But that moment has not yet arrived, and when it does, we will know what to do.
Until then, this water is here for us.
Let us stop by it, to know the sound of our ancestors, and indeed, to know the sound of us.
Ignore the guns for now. They are not here yet.
- - -
The battle is over. I tried my best. This is okay; it could have been worse. It will give us some time to explore, now that we are no longer conscripted.
Now that we no longer owe allegiance to any lord.
Free agents: a strange thought.
Now I'm a newcomer, in my country that does not exist.
In my despair I am sweet, like a lovebird, hatched from its clam, ready to explore the world.
Let me remember nothing so I may be a happy castaway, knowing nothing of what has gone before, or who I was.
Let me forget it all. Forget everything. I will forget everything. Let it all run away, like water, over my breast, over my heart. Healing me, of the world.
Heal me of the world, so I might be able to live in it again.
Let me die, so I will not have to see it any more. The world is too painful.
Let me Oedipus, of a kind, having seen the world, and let me go blind, so in that darkness I can find a new world. One with no light at all. One where light does not exist. Where It cannot exist, except as a radiation felt on the skin.
Here I am, in this strange place.
10/1/2016 12:45:26 pm
There aren't many contemporary writers that have the courage to look at society the way it is. Anxiety, despair and hope all mingle in a tone of melancholy for what society is not. Refreshing realism.
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