Four Poems by Michael Begnal

Punk and the Autonomous Individual

 

Does punk evolve?

 

Continual reiteration

of an oppositional stance

is facile and nihil,

swinging left and then always

to the right, depending

on our (mostly) white

minds, which we absurdly feel

to be autonomously our own

 

Should punk evolve?

 

Continental reverberations

open positions extant

as fossil, or isle,

sing wings aloft in the alleyway

of the rite descending—

 

dissonant response, like you is

a dead end, and could even

really be individual

     in a sound sense

 

  

Evolution 1

 

This is going to be

how the mirror reflects

the lens refracts

the moon reflects

the sun meet

at the point between the eyebrows

and the light revolves

into the center

of the passage-tomb

of the head

 

descends

through the empty terrain

of the below

to the cauldron

steady simmering

on low heat

 

water under the grate

melts into steam

  rising

    into

a keening

   noise

 

               //

 

the Revolution of the I:

is evolution,

the I transmuted,

refined

in the iron

cauldron

 

 

Evolution (single version)

 

so that it is the self

but also expression

of void-dark pervasion

 

images are real

but also images may be refracted,

and who will speak them

 

Department/

an affiliated amalgamation

of people cohered

around a purpose

possibly in a location

that is not always a building

 

Feral Forest/

both real and not-real

it is the potential

of a forest to (re)grow

when left alone

and the mind

to revert to its tree-nature

when out from under

oppression

 

in the single version

there was an extra verse

that sang the question:

should there be leader/s,

a central figure,

     a Boudica

 

albeit the lens refracts?

 

an echo among the oaks

 

 

Evolution 9

 

is it going to be alright?

 

flesh in waves of magnetic tape

shifting pink flashes out in the wind

animal cells pervaded by the real

strangely shimmering silent

     darkness

at evolved frequencies

 

“mere mysticism”

real working mass

panem et Circen

     embodied

glas-dark experience

 

into version 9

 

an economic boycott

is not a marketing opportunity

 

a city block aloaf

in ancient neon

is a field in the totality

chamber things

not standing still

number nine when

 

newly vatic

I played a CD

in the portal-tomb

the unexpected chord change

recorded on

     [void]

 

a central

movement

melts not

 

          INCIPIT

all those little spaces

    among the oaks

Michael Begnal

One Poem by Allison Whittenberg

and that’s the news

the weather writes 

about the weather 

for being the weather

The Count, by Pravasan Pillay

It’s a Monday. I stand at the kitchen sink, and wash and dry the lid, which is from a tin of mackerel. It’s a thin piece of rectangular metal, that has a slight curve, and a ring pull attached on one end. One side of the lid is dull, and the other side is brushed and shiny.
 
I open the cupboard below the sink and feel my way to a plastic bucket that is hidden behind the trash can. I take the bucket out the cupboard, and shake it to create room. I drop the lid into it. It clanks as it hits the other lids. I’m not sure how many are in it now.
 
I started saving them out of curiosity. My wife casually asked me one day at lunch to estimate how many tins of mackerel I think I eat in a year. The question stuck with me, and needled. So, I devised this method to keep track of my annual consumption.
     
I shake the bucket again, and place it back behind the trash can. I notice that I have a small cut on my thumb. It’s from the sharp edge of the lid. It’s not the first time it's happened. I plan to start keeping track of this. I walk to the bathroom to get a plaster.