Dennis Hinrichsen
[mosaic] [WITH GATSBY AND THE SOUR DEAD]
wind all night last night—a low fire
zombie substrate—like in the Arctic
now--
those nightmare scenes I keep repeating
freshly fanged--
brain nearly
digital these days--
even at rest
it scrolls—brain
still with its doors not blown out--
that’s my friend--
all his framing’s splintered--
wind has pushed him to cliff edge
in just four months--
he is slack--
windless—a jib--
really gibbet—hanging
between nurse and partner
to take a piss--
he forgets his daughter’s name
but not her face--
wakes from napping—looks for me--
but it’s just
Death there--
not low and delicious
as Whitman had it--
but vulgar mostly—lyric--
how could it not be otherwise--
that’s how we spoke--
walking Crane Beach
or that Gatsby lawn fronting the estate--
desiring
not money
but its hidden healing power--
loving daughters--
world as fuel as friendship is--
as bodies are--
father—brother—husband—wife--
all the sour dead
keening as we the living burn--
seeing only the grief
in it--
where is the joy--
the promised new life--
there’s a gap in theory
somewhere--
Dear godrot--Dear thing-in-the-night that pierces
the brain--
how is it you so easily cut away
at us
we mistake you for the shapes of care
wind all night last night—a low fire
zombie substrate—like in the Arctic
now--
those nightmare scenes I keep repeating
freshly fanged--
brain nearly
digital these days--
even at rest
it scrolls—brain
still with its doors not blown out--
that’s my friend--
all his framing’s splintered--
wind has pushed him to cliff edge
in just four months--
he is slack--
windless—a jib--
really gibbet—hanging
between nurse and partner
to take a piss--
he forgets his daughter’s name
but not her face--
wakes from napping—looks for me--
but it’s just
Death there--
not low and delicious
as Whitman had it--
but vulgar mostly—lyric--
how could it not be otherwise--
that’s how we spoke--
walking Crane Beach
or that Gatsby lawn fronting the estate--
desiring
not money
but its hidden healing power--
loving daughters--
world as fuel as friendship is--
as bodies are--
father—brother—husband—wife--
all the sour dead
keening as we the living burn--
seeing only the grief
in it--
where is the joy--
the promised new life--
there’s a gap in theory
somewhere--
Dear godrot--Dear thing-in-the-night that pierces
the brain--
how is it you so easily cut away
at us
we mistake you for the shapes of care
[dominion] [WITH JOHN KEATS AND A NAPKIN]
sometimes I am so eternal I am Keats’ nightingale
lip-synching
my own private trauma—that age-old human-
woe-
porn—magnificent and temporal in the singing--
but I’ll be
done soon—being mortal—nearing 70—I can’t
carry him
anymore—he can groan away in that other world--
literature—his
royalties crypto (by the line—like Poetry does)--
so he
can reap the love and fame many these days are
reaping—lesser
talents sure—but we’ve evolved—the computations
shift—it renders
down to voice the constant X—the criminal
(eternal)
(see above) vagaries of a era—the real trauma-
porn--
necessary—given diminishment (constant)—naked
murder--
how we manifest what we define as love—the way
some men now
would kill a nightingale if they could—failing that
they turn to
women—who are songbirds sometimes—eaten
behind a napkin--
by the beak—sometimes—it is happening now--
on full display
—O John Keats your poem is ruins—bust with
its nose
blown off—stumps for arms—not quite that
next
museum—heaven—if you believe such things--
but the di-
alectic is the same—new bird with new
song in the
trees mornings and a praying mantis in
the yard—I
oscillate between the two—song in my ear--
forlorn—yes--
then memory of song—and then the man-
tis--
its trip-wire quickness—in a spray of flowers
sometimes I am so eternal I am Keats’ nightingale
lip-synching
my own private trauma—that age-old human-
woe-
porn—magnificent and temporal in the singing--
but I’ll be
done soon—being mortal—nearing 70—I can’t
carry him
anymore—he can groan away in that other world--
literature—his
royalties crypto (by the line—like Poetry does)--
so he
can reap the love and fame many these days are
reaping—lesser
talents sure—but we’ve evolved—the computations
shift—it renders
down to voice the constant X—the criminal
(eternal)
(see above) vagaries of a era—the real trauma-
porn--
necessary—given diminishment (constant)—naked
murder--
how we manifest what we define as love—the way
some men now
would kill a nightingale if they could—failing that
they turn to
women—who are songbirds sometimes—eaten
behind a napkin--
by the beak—sometimes—it is happening now--
on full display
—O John Keats your poem is ruins—bust with
its nose
blown off—stumps for arms—not quite that
next
museum—heaven—if you believe such things--
but the di-
alectic is the same—new bird with new
song in the
trees mornings and a praying mantis in
the yard—I
oscillate between the two—song in my ear--
forlorn—yes--
then memory of song—and then the man-
tis--
its trip-wire quickness—in a spray of flowers
--
Dennis Hinrichsen’s most recent work is Flesh-plastique from Green Linden Press, published March 2023. He has new work appearing or forthcoming in diode, The Glacier, Leon Literary Review, The Pedestal and Timber. He lives in Lansing, Michigan.
Dennis Hinrichsen’s most recent work is Flesh-plastique from Green Linden Press, published March 2023. He has new work appearing or forthcoming in diode, The Glacier, Leon Literary Review, The Pedestal and Timber. He lives in Lansing, Michigan.