Interpretation | Gordon Hilgers

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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.


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