Poetry John Fenlon Hogan — September 17, 2012 17:55 — 0 Comments
Of Today and Today Only – John Fenlon Hogan
And here in the thicket of us, she’s scouring
pots with the same hair cloth I used to wrap
around my torso. And here I am sifting through
the different brands of truth and reconciliation
rummaged from beneath the floor boards. In the middle
of the night, the radiator and the pipe that follows
from it sometimes bang with urgency, sometimes hiss
with a secret and selfish knowledge, and in a daze
you could believe another world is trying to make
itself known, blowing off its steam. The fact is
that the facts of the world are the same
for the happy and unhappy man alike: sometimes
we are cold, other times warm. Sometimes a dark
and stormy, a cigarette out the window, or a silence
meaning one or none of these: today and today only,
the sunset is no metaphor; I could go for a glass of water;
something is indeed on fire. Those nights in night school
the professor lectured on theories abstract
as the Titanic sinking, and I wondered how
I would take part in a world which measures success
in terms of minimizing loss (meaning, protect
the principal). As he went on and on about sunk costs
I thought of her and the sheer mountain of nail polish
bottles she hoards in the corner, stronghold
of HERE I AM. I don’t believe that there’s no place
for ambergris in the budget. Starlight, I found you tucked
in my back pocket looking like an emissary
or envoy, but whatever your message was
(if you had one): not received. I can only assume
therefore that your mission is to return
to the source. To tell them how we place want
before need, the deftitude with which we operate
the remote, and the sense of allegiance we give
to the plasma screen. Will you describe to them
our concept of public bathrooms, the irony
of hiding in a stall, the principles of urinal distribution
among men? Brief them, too, on the finer points.
How what holds is watching a movie together in bed
or spending enough time with another such that life
apart is counterproductive. How it is running the water
for an extra ten seconds or so to get the lead out.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney