Eric Anderson publishes frequently in The Sun. His work is a fantastic exercise in voice, and shows how that element of writing can seamlessly knit together narrative, emotion, and thought. I’m not sure I agree with the ‘belief’ of this poem but I sure do enjoy the voice behind it. You can find Anderson’s book here, which is on its way to my house right now. I’m excited!
Today I feel better, because I woke thinking everything that disappears from the planet
might reappear somewhere else. The thought was grand at first. I imagined the dodo,
silly and lost forever, still alive in some other dimension. Inevitably, though,
the thought became smaller. I tried to save it by imagining the dodo’s core
ingredients recycled and assimilated into otherness: absorbed by predators or
scavengers, turned into dirt. I began to care less about form. If my body broken into atoms
still exists, then the loss of my body is not a true loss,
for I was only briefly human.
Yesterday, when I woke, I felt not so good, because I realized that every day the possibility
of my sleeping with two women at the same time diminishes.
A sad thought
first thing in the morning. It only proves how ridiculous thinking can be:
the wrong thought can waylay all other plans and send one into a daylong daydream
about Porno World, where the best career you can have is plumber or pizza-delivery guy.
And now I am sad once again because it is unpleasant to realize that both thoughts carry
equal weight in my mind: a world where nothing dies because everything still exists,
and a world where beautiful women call you up to fix their television but decide
they’d like to fuck you instead. I thought of their mouths on my body, and also I
thought of the dodo being not extinct but opening
a fragment of sky low to the horizon — even the air at our feet is sky —
and stepping through into dodo heaven, becoming the dodosattva, but still
essentially a large, flightless bird, easy to catch, pleasant of taste.
Now it occurs to me that even if the dodos came back, I wouldn’t be happy for long.
And even if two bisexual roommate stewardesses suddenly ravished me midflight,
eventually I would want more than that — more mouths, more women —
and even smothered under the weight of their passion somehow I would want more flesh, less air.
Nothing ever goes away enough or arrives enough,
and I want to cry when I think of my heart,
muscle pounding in muscle, greedy always for joy.