Interpretation | Gordon Hilgers
In both high life and lowdown, mendicants walk through a welfare state of light so pure in the nudity of intent the screen of your laptop goes blank in the sun. Your mouse scurries near the sacred stairways of Kathmandu like a pacifier to a lost awareness. In America, should you dare drift like this, hungry for days or weeks, the body’s dirt a meditation on implicit cleanliness, you would be told to get a job. Lady Liberty hid this choice beneath her rust-riven copper skirts; the hands by which Whitman held high the homeless as he chanted of pioneering blissfulness to hold you too, millions up and leaving the city’s heat for rabbit trails, arroyos, each passage breathless to see you for the first time. You clatter upon your keyboard atop the Olympus of abstraction, the NOMAD satellite phone fit to feed you more, and your labors more, amid dying amaranthine, pining evergreen, oddities of a fallen Everest, or of a heart, a nervous reflection of your face in cloud, water, beyond the poshlust of supply and demand.