(poems by Bianca van der Meulen)
Saturday, August 6, 2016
One Shock Among Many
Real murder is so slow.
He raises his arms like a man fighting sleep,
turning his head.
There’s a wave of minimalism in Japan,
a man with three shirts and under 100 belongings,
not including his daughter. He used to think about
what he didn’t have, he says, but now
he is happy. There’s a study of neuroticism
published recently that tries to explain
why unhappy people seem so damn creative.
imagination is the root of fear. I think
I could be happy with three shirts and a daughter
and no imagination.
Like the man in that movie,
sitting lobotomized under the trees.
Guard the gate, the base of my brain.
Hire a watchman, a dog, one of those electrical systems
you can’t see except in stickers.
No matter; there’s nothing there
worth stealing. I cobbled the furniture together
from old parts; found the TV in a junkyard; the floor
is all-natural organic dirt. They wouldn’t come for that.
My Mind Refuses
My mind refuses to go where I send it. From the outside,
it may seem a small thing: one invisibly
stiff-necked brain, sitting in a skull in a room in a house.
In here she is violent, bursting through the sockets of my eyes,
dragging me across the sea.
I'm Starting to See the Money
I’m starting to see the money under everything
flowing, coursing, cool and inevitable
as the springs and pipes between layers of rock.
It scares me how little it scares me,
how true and simple it seems
that you can quantify everything.
3 Things I Do
I track my every minute, nine to five,
obsessed with a thing without substance,
time, efficient to a fault, creating days, or
destroying until night.
I kiss my lover’s lips, his back,
submerged in our ocean of two-toned flesh,
us, ignorant of otherness, in ecstasy, or
dancing wide-eyed on it.
I watch for death, the sword,
curious from the crevice of my mountain,
life, perched on the edge of it, half-awake, or
half-asleep, perhaps, perhaps dangerously.