Morton Feldman starts the day
at last, something cheerful?
the piano’s sound barely glimmers
as if, sitting on the floor,
with hands held up high,
it were flailing in the air
two days in Budapest
supposedly
the regime changed
they pass themselves off as middle class
whatever that means
Engels, Piketty, Ehrenreich
would smile
at this muddled dream
of returning polgárság
but I see no change...
sixteen years ago
I left this place
in a similar mental state
where I am hardly matters
the story could have gone anywhere by now
the agony may be drawn out a little longer
so long as there is raw material
the business can keep running
they can go on playing soldiers
they can take pleasure
again and again
in carrying on
the denial of reality.
we work, we trade
we hit, we hit back
we are flowers grown downwards
if only I could write something beautiful about us
something touchingly gentle
something like
we could be smarter
or we could be more honest
stupid as we are, still
greedy as we are, still...
but these are feelings
personal avalanches
my thoughts mean nothing
against the full landscape
the whole thing
rotten and functioning
in the chaos
my laptop screen in the dark
attracts the fruit flies
I admire them
they bring life into the room
diversification
existence
competition
quick mating and reproduction
and the fact that somewhere
there is a rotten apple
nearby
it must be delicious.
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