(La gallina ciega, by Antonio Berni, 1973)

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Specially Woven Edge that Prevents Cloth from Unravelling

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In the wind machine, at the ranch
in the bristle cone canyon that blows day after day
I’m halfway from where I started
         an hour ago.
I’m merry and cannot work.
The graven yet friendly images of culture
          keep peeking
from undercover.
          I’m surrounded by comic hybrids, cologned and officious,
racing by in econoboxes, listening to modern music!
Precise speech makes me feel so dumb or
          still in school.
Yonder lathering doctors make surgery less medieval.
Folks, the future is here, living between the genius and
          the challenged.
I cause myself to love mankind – but hold on
          a minute!
I’m one of us. I love blue sky, clouds, sun, and palms
          As cars race by with neighbors free of wrongdoing.
I’m a mere selvage against irritation and abrasion.
          I’ll unravel last.
Yet when most prepared,
          least aligned.
Jot date and subject here
          and stop doing that thing of harmonizing
with happenstance – doesn’t a dog bark here?
          Too early, so no, no mystery sync
with nature or neighborhood. Hadn’t
          realized till now how quiet a place
Los Angeles is. Hark! An airliner!
The ribs of aspiration, arms of steering,
          skeletal lubricants and rollers of strain
and soreness - but I’m no car –
          besides, I’m electric now. Dirty ions
(probably) from coal fires in Utah.
          But we improve slowly and speed up,
racing to the top of this. That part
          about harmonizing again – can beauty swamp
affliction and allow us to claim our true place
          in the world beyond suffering? Environmentalists
take better care of obscure snails
          than they do unhoused humans.
Ebullience put on to dance the canon,
          ears buzzing
with cicadas of the blood.
          Why not open things up, deduce the themes,
Enthrall those with fixed ideas with figures
          never considered.
I have but four thoughts left to sum up my mind:
          Inertia is exuberance, both good and evil.
Memory of New York is the classic poetry.

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