The New Lost Blues
by Carter Monroe
(ed. note: The New Lost Blues originally appeared
in THIRD LUNG
REVIEW #29, reprinted here by permission of the editor. It
also appears in Sittin' in With the Sun and is being made
available courtesy of Rank Stranger Press.)
andy warhol ain't pop no more 'cause contrived ain't what
it's all about - tarantino don't know shakespeare, but he
don't want to - my banjo playin' friend calls the place
"trashville" and art ain't likely to be made in no
studio
everybody sees the old towns as death and what if i
tell you that nothin' is relative and not to argue with me
or with the heads on the corner stoppin' cars and comin'
away shakin' their own heads and squeezin' their spirits
base sounds extend themselves for blocks and gritty
glass lies helpless, the dust of broken empty "40's"
what would jack think about this "real" about this
excrement of progress that feeds on everything but
itself and souls can never be maggoty there's always
somethin' worth savin' gerard'll tell ya if ya know how
to pray - the secrets revel on the other side on the
dark levels under the ground the rocks the manholes
surreptition ain't what it used to be - the signs are there
for the invisible taking - a tramp's vision might be just
the thing for this millennium moment - a traipsing of statues
shunning a block of bastilles - the morals got lost in
the growls persistent gnashing of maw and rotten ties
and swarms of termites cloud the barren trout streamed
desert - "is that what that was" - dunes - "i
can't hear you"
and i drive by - aware of platitudes - in a 1952 mundane
back to poetry
home
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