Robin Blaser

whatever it's a sign of--that
trip of           an art
      we're interested finally
in the unique of its meta-
         every anti-metaphysics
reverts into a metaphysics,
as Marx and men and women fucked their

each move is infinite, troubled
by how it got there, the split-
rope of

Freud found it and made sexual
metaphysics, until, years later,
it reverted and made meta-
physics--it's funny that way,
where it walked on the land,
America, France and Russia,

and became not-a-place
but a change of typewriters,
which alphabet or hunting dog
knew better and reverted into sheer
picture or postcard of the moon
over any Miami you can think of

the 'mindless revellers' dream--
America is Europe's dream, its
superstitious futurity

America did not exist; and it exists
only if it is utopia, history on the
move toward a golden age            )Paz

its conflict with Marxism, Europe's
last dream of the future, gives up
the nightmare--its reason--to be delirious

assholiness, my dears, in the wintry
splendour     what was once called
being is complexity --of reunions--
of act--of quality--
                     of the world
I have argued because, in the
complexity, 'we' could not argue it

Robin Blaser Index
The East Village Poetry Web