Attachment | Kostas Anagnopoulos

By rote I wrote 
Attached the words and their prescriptions  
More balls in the air 
I wrote about the flood that washed up all the books 
I spelled them out before they were gone 
Now time is up
Up!   
Flooded with common expectations 
Keep them away from your face   

Wanting and loving are different 
I'm slumped over my own bones 
Antique bric-a-brac
Decades of sitting or lying down  
Spelling something out
Out! 
Dreams of poems are up for grabs
Concentrate on people 
Dreaming or no
Their silhouettes if not their features
Some are dead
Shake out their coins    
There's no ghost story 
No greeting cards for spirits  

Dreams keep for weeks
Years even
Now awake  
The United States in blue and green 
All its earthly possessions 
More trouble than they're worth 
Hiccups

Poems squeezed out across the states 
Flying through the air   
Wheels outnumber their spins 
But who’s counting 
I can write a poem cheaply 
In my sleep  

B is a poet of possibility 
Have you met? 
Her words taught me English  
I hope the Dinah Washington stamp will be available soon
Saturday afternoon B recited her longest poem to an audience of six 
While the rest of us drank Pinot Grigio and chit chatted on the mezzanine 
Though who really knows how to chit chat anymore?
Everywhere you look: more matter 
B offered to leave 
She wanted to be alone with her luggage  

All days have hidden moons 
Up at the top 
Behind the steeples 
Seen by a few with attics
Poverty is the economy of the rich 
No matter how you wring it 
Ones with more fuck over ones with less 
Thank the Greeks for that 
 
I’ve been writing to the dead 
God and Mohammed both dead  
Look at all the people still at it  
On the opposite side of the sun 
I follow the sun to California
I’m dutiful  
My father said don’t go there 
When he meant go there 
Typical 

It’s going to be a wet one
Then some dry ones
Do you ever think about your work?
No, seriously 
Words themselves are work
And there’s economy  
As you know words are free 
That’s why they keep coming
Causing cancer, WSB reminded us long ago 
No end in sight 
Poets only have each other
Though many hate each other 
Who else gets it?
Academics?
Tea drinking types? 

B believes poetry will save the world 
If we get that far 
I’m taking bets 
But poets, I beg you
Don’t write novels
House sparrows have tiny heads 
Unlike European starlings
I was wrong about the trumpet flowers  
Today I worry about greasy fingerprints 
Getting on everything

The sky looks down 
Listening to us
We are so boring
Why does it tolerate us?  
Your long lost friends can hear you 
Staying in touch isn't easy 
You buy the newspaper
It tells you everything in a nutshell
Who died, what they did 
Why you didn't know them
How could you? 
Those people outnumber you   
Forget the subway
Start with the ones you know 
Where to now?
Upstairs 

Which eye is bigger?   
Look harder 
I started off so clear-headed 
Where does knowing get you 
Forget certainty 
Get lost, they say 
Don’t look in the mirror 
It's all happening beyond your reflection   
Orpheus got lost
He did it for the press
One thought knocks the other off its pedestal
It's last in a long line of punch lines 
Greasy fingers pointing at things  
Are words good for nothing?  
I feel a memoir coming on
Not my own
Not a poem   
 
When words are all used up
There's always touch 
People or birds 
Let me clarify 
I don’t have a thing for birds 
I’m fond of bird books 
I find flight fascinating 
I wish for it 
Everything everywhere
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