Francis Raven
2 Poems
Terra Cotta Bureaucrats
The afterlife is much like the imagination:
boundless save for the corners
you remain hung up on, edges snagging your sleep.
Pure possibility is pure hope or, as is so often the case, despair.
What is there that might repair such anxiety?
boundless save for the corners
you remain hung up on, edges snagging your sleep.
Pure possibility is pure hope or, as is so often the case, despair.
What is there that might repair such anxiety?
The Emperor, the first, if you have been counting,
sits at a lacquered desk, not smiling, but consolidating.
His early plans scattered. He can't find one thing
under any other thing and yet he does not appear to have lost anything:
great power admits no weakness; it simply delegates
weakness away. Said in other, more frequent, terms
the emperor's impressions existed merely to impress.
sits at a lacquered desk, not smiling, but consolidating.
His early plans scattered. He can't find one thing
under any other thing and yet he does not appear to have lost anything:
great power admits no weakness; it simply delegates
weakness away. Said in other, more frequent, terms
the emperor's impressions existed merely to impress.
Everyone has such flamboyant faculties (drawing humanity together +
separating us from mere animals): the mind’s reproduction, pure whim;
nevertheless, pure possibility is as cancerous
as the absolute empire:
the sublime disgust in large numbers:
that we are small, that reason rounds us for shipping + handling.
That is, cells must be categorized, organized, managed.
separating us from mere animals): the mind’s reproduction, pure whim;
nevertheless, pure possibility is as cancerous
as the absolute empire:
the sublime disgust in large numbers:
that we are small, that reason rounds us for shipping + handling.
That is, cells must be categorized, organized, managed.
Qin Shi Huang poses at a bureau imagining the afterlife (baked earth, to ask,
to crack): the vast retinue of swans, acrobats, musicians, and soldiers expands
until he realizes he needs some minor bureaucrats
to reign in these disparate, and relatively autonomous, spheres of life:
the means of administration caught taut in his dictatorial hands.
to crack): the vast retinue of swans, acrobats, musicians, and soldiers expands
until he realizes he needs some minor bureaucrats
to reign in these disparate, and relatively autonomous, spheres of life:
the means of administration caught taut in his dictatorial hands.
That is, from the vantage of a desk
a desk is necessary.
a desk is necessary.
Art Matters
I guess it’s always surprising
How little what we have matters.
More is taken from more.
Rhythm is a rug
We try to live upon:
It gets old, shook out
Still
The pattern reveals
Itself to
The simple canvas.
The simple sun is still;
But a rooftop
Can still see a simple:
A simple sun
And still
A simple fee
And still
It’s so interesting how little matters
When we’re counting
And yet
We’re always counting
Each window, bedroom, fixture
Appears to matter
When we’re counting
The drawings through broader definition:
Traditions of musical instruments
And strumming the rain from a window
That still needs to be cleaned.
Yes, every window still needs to be cleaned.
It’s so interesting how little matters
When we’re counting the dots between
Results compounded
Unto the scroll of
You have to cut that somewhere.
You have to cut it
Where one thing seems to matter
And the next thing doesn’t
And then you have to cut it again
Where the next thing matters
And the next thing after that just isn’t the same
Thing that matters; it just doesn’t matter the same:
It can’t. To understand what matters is to divide:
To frame. You can always tell an expensive neighborhood
By the doors.
How little what we have matters.
More is taken from more.
Rhythm is a rug
We try to live upon:
It gets old, shook out
Still
The pattern reveals
Itself to
The simple canvas.
The simple sun is still;
But a rooftop
Can still see a simple:
A simple sun
And still
A simple fee
And still
It’s so interesting how little matters
When we’re counting
And yet
We’re always counting
Each window, bedroom, fixture
Appears to matter
When we’re counting
The drawings through broader definition:
Traditions of musical instruments
And strumming the rain from a window
That still needs to be cleaned.
Yes, every window still needs to be cleaned.
It’s so interesting how little matters
When we’re counting the dots between
Results compounded
Unto the scroll of
You have to cut that somewhere.
You have to cut it
Where one thing seems to matter
And the next thing doesn’t
And then you have to cut it again
Where the next thing matters
And the next thing after that just isn’t the same
Thing that matters; it just doesn’t matter the same:
It can’t. To understand what matters is to divide:
To frame. You can always tell an expensive neighborhood
By the doors.
