[Nettime-bold] [ot] [!nt] \n2+0\

[integer@www.god-emil.dk]

From: Eryk Salvaggio <fluxis@mediaone.net>


I am reposting the following poem, which was published in my 
book last April. Re reading it gave me chills. I am not 
reposting this for "publicity" but it is scary and overwhelming 
in the wake of recent events. 

++++++++++++++++

Futile Wires Direct Us Towards The 
Electricity Which Lights the Smallest Halo.


Concrete and Steel
balancing on science
and the gravity of 
this rotating sphere
exploiting its core.

We walk around it 
for decades into 
centuries: accept
our new paths made
to circumscribe. 

It would take a madman
to throw himself into 
the walls; to bruise 
his shoulders, 
to scratch his knees;
to pound his fist 
to shards of bone 
and concrete. 
And we would watch 
and look away 
and ask him please
to stop reminding us.

the force of us:
millions of bodies 
hurled like steak
a million shattered fists
heard throughout 
this darkening sphere;
the metallic noise
of spirit flung into steel;
silent voices with their own 
sudden singing, and choirs 
refusing to compromise.

The new culture born 
from hands shaking and sore
the poetics of denouncement
without bitterness;
the single human being
crossing streets 
to join us at the fray, 
obeying the stop lights;
shaking hands with captors. 

You may shake your fists 
at the airplanes over head,
screaming, "who the hell 
do you think you are?"
We will make our tiny fists
into the finger tapping 
of beauty behind concrete
which can never shatter.

Hollow surfaces 
are the most resonant:
beauty is merely echoes
of fingertips and fists
tapping on the pavement:
the symphony stops when 
futility stops us: 
in these empty gestures 
there is room to breath
for just one more second.






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