Traffic grinds, so much grinds,
even Michelet thought so. Mario Savio
and the spontaneity, the unplanned,
that the machine cannot handle. The footnotes
are always the most interesting: I read the footnotes
to philosophy, the unreasonable and emotional:
Poetry: the friction
or grinding: that’s why the Romantics are hated now.
The lies that dispute truth or lies that reveal lies
are not truth, so the grinding increases,
and hip and knee replacements become more common
but shoddier. We can’t move away or towards an answer
because of the grinding pain.
My cat died the other day; he couldn’t walk anymore
from arthritis in his shoulders. He was a tuxedo cat,
looked fancy until he died, but he ate his father’s steroids
when his father was dying, so his shoulders were ruined,
or so the vet told us. I’m too young to remember
why his father needed steroids, so I fear any moral is lost.
The tomatoes keep ripening, as my grandma says
even since she lost her farm. The almanac predicts (, and :)
the cherry orchard was chopped down by the merchant,
bankruptcy laws were changed too late, the status quo gained more status,
Walt Whitman was quoted, and politics felt rooted.
Giraud and Bishop said the same thing: little moons rain
from the almanac because the words it holds become too sad,
it must release them before they can be ground up by the modernists and postmodernists
to grease the machine, the serializing and anthologizing machine.
Frost is anthologized, but regardless of how Frost is read
it’s cold in America,
and only the grinding
of knee and hip replacements keep us warm.