Andrew Wildermuth is a poet from Maryland, studying North American literature
and culture in Erlangen, Germany. His poems have recently appeared or are
forthcoming in Into the Void, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Here Comes Everyone.
The New Law
I have never not awoken.
Never not found a complex of things
upon waking: Perhaps my most great
feat. Whole hard things keep filling lazy
hands, and these lungs are insistent. Always
grabbing at the air, humble choir. Always
held by security of the sure strap and
the inward-turned things, having grown already
means of making themselves new. Here's hope
to close eyes and find something different. Stones
not sounding when struck. Imagine a world
that grew to love itself. Grew to
love, and everything else. Imagine a past
filled with shattered tortoise shells and counted
straws. A future aim of self-removal. Here's
a tool: forget your morning. Seven
other earthly experiments have ended since
you opened your eyes. On guard. On
record. Steal everything from yourself.
That's not theft. It's law.
Two wrenches released the tension
of a month. More recently, hurled
across a patio. Resulting in: dislocation.
Soon after: relocations. Complex things,
of course, commonly rise. We consulted
w/ the results: you still remain. Thanks,
e-commerce & public opinion. & 5-star reviews
fulfill my cupboards: a fifth-filled pot, in pre-dawn
fluorescent glow provided publicly, witnesses
movement. It meets heat. First goal of this
morning: reject anatomy. Produce steam.
Blue highlight, the usual insight, the news.
I think the roaring 20s are coming back.
The New Frontier
Now, excuse me, but I know
why this ocean grows. Warm
things. Now, let me explain
myself: reference yesterday. Stay
here for ten, or three minutes. (Enter:
Heraclitus quote.) Sing half your anthem
and escape behind your hum again,
a lax and lusty whistle. Insert an
image, now. Consider the train. Do
the locomotive. Move together, neu-
trally. Rejoice! Or, leave and count
your blessings — safety chief among
them. (My god, there's order to every
thing.) In the slow-pan panorama of
a desert, a whole plot's revealed. Easy
to see. Account for space. Marks of
wind and always a new beginning; poly
mers. What's that? And you believe our
cities are so different? Polymers. Heard
someone called this a frontier, now. (That
was me.) Let's build a park by the river.
Tonight at a pool hall in
Kreuzberg everyone wore denim
and we didn't pay for Jamesons.
We told them we studied
and they told us they made
things. I wonder what it's like
to think so long something
comes to be. Like something
you can hold. Of course I mean
heavy things. To get here, I drew lines
across a map and saw a blue
dot flicker in the street. The
sun felt different in March,
and the air, and, oh, lines
make things into other things
and Tempelhof still consumed
us, still drew up our
clouded eyes. There,
we didn't really talk money.
We just, under the shadows
of planes, noticed children
climbing trees and parents
handsomely drinking. Do you
really think these people need
liberation? I will patiently wait
until it's cool again to dream
of govts. Maybe in the next
century or neighborhood
things might all be different.
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