by Johannes Goransson on Apr.24, 2012
Clayton Eshleman wrote this poem addressed to Don Mee Choi:
FOR DON MEE CHOI
You belong to none except the gong.
On to on its copper undulations translate into meat—
the cheek of liberty, Ensoresque crowds.
Yourself behind yourself concealed,
what Hadic invisibility is being revealed?
Is your forehead apotropaic from wandering in your face?
Or did you drop the felted soul hammer seconds before
Cambodia with four million of our land mines.
Bankers glinting crystal angles.
You’re in Seattle. I’m outside Detroit.
We’re both facing the light show in Club Rapture
as if the planet is an ongoing Rave. Afghan bands on LSD
while American drones chowder their family bunks
1962: I am bargaining with a Korean whore in discarded
GI fatigues by
the Seoul SAC Compound Gate.
The dispossessed and the poet
before the closed Western Gate:
we lack the power to realize what we see to be real.
Its all absurd and
eerily mantic: the shadow of our uterine
scaffolding keeps shadowing our present shade.
You belong to a longing to birth rapids and mares,
to a rampart on which a hagazussa is oiling her broom.
You look down a cerebral tunnel rotating with escapes:
all harrowing enough
to keep you focused on a phantomatic art.
Were you to insert a serpent, might “the lambent
homage of his arrowy tongue” turn you into a pythoness
capable of resetting a cosmogonic dial?
Ransacked by our finite infinity,
we hover the anima gore stored in testicular vats.
January 18-March 17, 2012