Four Poems by Drew Dillhunt
When I say civil war, hear autoimmune
response; hear explanation’s intern
hear twenty-five pounds of black powder
held hostage in the back of a Suburban
don’t worry, they’re state-approved
these containers to hold trade unions
responsible for any antebellum behavior
there’s no need for confederacy
to lapse into time-honored disrepair
when the legislators flee the capital
it’s the spirit of democracy we’re after
and we just don’t have the votes
to reenact the debate betwixt
competition and mutual aid:
in the absence
of plausible mathematics
our natural state is
When I say metaphor, hear user interface
hear rare earth metal skyline
hear the twelve step program asking
how to put its cell phone down
how to sort the text bubbles
on the flat screen of the fish tank
into a poetics of directories
henceforth known as folders
which converge on the absence of data
and draw remarkable conclusions
about the origins of altruism
here in the depths of the framework
the transfer station is my point of contact
aren’t you amazed by your need to write
please remember to shift your mobile device
from your pants to your shirt pocket
to your attaché with some frequency
until we can sort the safety concerns.
A field of lentil-like bodies
gestates in the pond of my mind
it’s decent of you to deny your arousal
and I welcome the subterfuge
for proprietary reasons
a cell’s firm resolve
to divide is routine. Here
is the actual monastery
beneath the blue tarp
where a new green diesel
lurks in the wings and begs
the question: is consciousness
a pre-condition for altruism?
I take H to the bar for a drink
to discuss the paradox, the open
and shut of it; the what we want
is a I-bought-you-a-gift-card-
and-it’s-as-good-as-cash-
only-with-a-few-restrictions-and-
plus-or-minus-a-touch-of-surplus-
value nonsense. The city is multivalent
and it begins with the sounds
of my little boy kicking at his crib.
If this soap in my hand is an inkblot
where are we headed: when all
I can see is potato, again and again
unraveling the thread of the pristine
the ideal of verse. Here are your hands
push them together. Again. Reform
the unvexed motion. There are bits
and pieces of profundity
all over the place. Bend the branch
let me juxtapose. So I’ve got an ear
for it, can pick shit from Shinola
off the hot concrete, you call it
a gift, I call it a placement
in the not-so-unifying scheme
a seismic wave from the PA
registered on the surface of a pint—
the sort of particular that’s all
the lovelier for being reduced
to an equation, but no more
transcendent than we found it.
Is it possible there’s an oligarchy
based on syntax, a great collection
of Sith Lords gathered ‘round a travel
Scrabble board, reaching for a dictionary
choking themselves to death
with their minds.
Drew Dillhunt is author of the chapbook 3,068,518 (Mudlark No. 39). His writing has appeared
in Eclectica, Hummingbird, Jacket, and Tarpaulin Sky; and is forthcoming in VOLT and Jacket2.
His manuscript, Materials Science, was selected as a finalist for the 2009 National Poetry Series.
He has released two albums of songs, including one with the band Fighting Shy, and is a member
of the Seattle art-music collaborative The Blank Department.
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