January 2018
Michael Gessner
mjcg3@aol.com
mjcg3@aol.com
I live in Tucson with my wife Jane, a watercolorist, and with our dog, Irish. Our son Chris, writes for screen in L.A. My more recent work has appeared in The North American Review, The French Literary Review, Verse Daily, Innisfree, and others. My most recent collections are Transversales (BlazeVOX, 2013,) and Selected Poems (FutureCycle, 2016). I enjoy writing articles and reviews and these may be found in Jacket2, The Edgar Allan Poe Review, NAR, and The Kenyon Review, C. V. Mosby, Times-Mirror, and Allyn & Bacon Composition Series.
Glitterati
We are driven by our fascinations.
Glossiness gliding down 5th Avenue,
the imagined life of adulation,
model, saint, club killer.
Arrested by surface attractors,
the impulse is irresistible,
it is what takes the debutante
to the tattoo parlor,
obedience to the magic image;
we are ruled by sparkling things,
like Marilyn in silver lamé
& Arthur with all his shining honors.
The moment of conception was born itself
under the mirrored ball in the dance palace,
replayed in chains of bubbles in countless flutes
of champagne, luminous & effervescent.
The glitterati, hunched over a table,
share the first glint of revolution,
it is all about them.
They toast—a sparkling future.
The Blue-Eared Homunculus of Expectation
cannot be tamed.
It is wild always,
bound to Exhaustion,
each a keeper & slave to the other.
They cannot see
the benefits of sitting alone
in a vineyard, or being with Landscape
until they are breathing it
& so they dance with confusion,
hold hands with the clatter
that excess brings
& invade every absence.
Excitement alone is purpose.
Infants are taught this condition
from the beginning by well-meaning adults
who wish to entertain themselves
& believe they are communicating joy.
Some conditions cannot be cured.
Glitterati
We are driven by our fascinations.
Glossiness gliding down 5th Avenue,
the imagined life of adulation,
model, saint, club killer.
Arrested by surface attractors,
the impulse is irresistible,
it is what takes the debutante
to the tattoo parlor,
obedience to the magic image;
we are ruled by sparkling things,
like Marilyn in silver lamé
& Arthur with all his shining honors.
The moment of conception was born itself
under the mirrored ball in the dance palace,
replayed in chains of bubbles in countless flutes
of champagne, luminous & effervescent.
The glitterati, hunched over a table,
share the first glint of revolution,
it is all about them.
They toast—a sparkling future.
The Blue-Eared Homunculus of Expectation
cannot be tamed.
It is wild always,
bound to Exhaustion,
each a keeper & slave to the other.
They cannot see
the benefits of sitting alone
in a vineyard, or being with Landscape
until they are breathing it
& so they dance with confusion,
hold hands with the clatter
that excess brings
& invade every absence.
Excitement alone is purpose.
Infants are taught this condition
from the beginning by well-meaning adults
who wish to entertain themselves
& believe they are communicating joy.
Some conditions cannot be cured.
© 2018 Michael Gessner
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