Material Follies — A poem by V.B. Price

[For Young Writers and Artists Trying to Keep Afloat]

 

SQUANDERING

It’s the fulfillment of whims,
the robotic gushing of money, of time

spurting out, cascading, vanishing for nothing
as if you will always have enough

of everything—you’re just a programmed
culprit of what you abhor,

a modified spigot that won’t turn off,
trained by Madmen to want

what you’ve never thought of
even once before, enticed by design, by the chic

war for your psyche, prying you apart
with machines of art you can’t resist

like hiking your arm at a Nuremberg rally
and all to be like the mere actors

who sell you the goods, praising detergents,
magic sweepers as if they were sightings

of the Virgin sparkling in the dungeon
of sponges and cleaners under the sink.

The opposite, wasting not, adds time to things
and makes them smoother, softer,

more and more reliable. Of course
things break down, succumb

to their weakest parts.
But that takes a lot of meantimes.

When they’re gone, though,
that’s all there is, there isn’t any more.

Use what you can
till you can’t. Time likes that.

TEMPTING FATE

Living a free fall, high wire life,
rock face climbing without a rope,

one failure the only failure, living like that,
without any help from yourself, is suicide

by optimism. Great work is a lifetime thing.
It’s not a Russian roulette of success

with only one chamber empty.
Daredevil living dooms to the void

the work that would keep unfolding
as long as you’re there

to receive it. This requires no
James Bond technology, no machine guns

from tail pipes, catapult seats.
Piggy banks would do just fine.

Do what the work demands, of course.
But don’t let it kill you. This is not

superspy smart, just kid stuff really,
but what agony comes

from being without, running on empty
when you know you have

so much left to be said
and made and understood.

When you’ve saved a lot it seems
you rarely need a drop of it.

When you’ve not, fate takes advantage. But don’t
save love, or good ideas, or perfect images.

Use them all up.
There’s no rainy day for them.

HOARDING

So well prepared
for the eventualities

of her imagination,
she couldn’t move

out of the way of the real
boulder

crashing down
through the trees.

She’d tried to run, to step aside
but the pounds of toilet paper, canned tuna,

eyebrow pencils, lipsticks, nitroglycerine pills,
videos shored up against disaster

and dips into destitution
tripped her up with every step.

She had so much stuff
she couldn’t budge, homeless

even in her storehouse car.
There was just no way

to see past her preparations
as she drove along the mountain side,

the windshield obscured,
except for a tiny hole,

and no side vision.
Pathologically prepared,

obliteration
by the 18 wheeler

actually took no
preparation at all.

MICROMANAGING

Ordering creates
inspiring space

so what would happen
can happen. Turning mole hills

into sweat shops, though,
simulates flow.

Mock ups are all you get.
Control without grace,

it squeezes particulars
into cramped

spaces of intention. It is
the opposite of trust,

of making humble room
for the ever unforeseen. It jams up

flow with effort — it substitutes
intention for direction,

even for indirection
with a purpose. It limits chances

and crams the urge
of the universe into the limits

of neurosis and history
instead of giving us ways

to ride the unknown into florescence
after florescence. Trust is the greatest

discipline. See what is, go with it, and
when it’s wrong, trust

there’s another way
and that you can find it.

FORCE

Force is not just
for politics by other means.

When you force yourself to be
who you want to be, and you can’t

get there, it’s not unlike being open
to the fatal blow to the ear,

the dagger in the crotch,
the final defeat from false

information. Force must not fail.
When it does, the artful

detonate from frustration.
Try to force art like a paper Narcissus,

try to force what can only
come from the madness of the gods,

and you’ve stood on the toes
of glorious muses. Paper weights

will be your only reward.
Force may win out, but if it does

expect only the very, very
worst to be the achievement.

There’s a secret: clear the desk,
be in the safe garret of your dreams,

smell apple peels in the drawer,
have three inks and four perfect pens

if that’s what it takes, if that’s what opens
and clears the way and allows who you are

to change and relax into your being without
the slightest nudge from your needy intentions.

ALL YOUR EGGS IN ONE BASKET

The way of the world will never
suffer the burden of your needs.

It will do what it does,
its fat-headed this’s and that’s,

and leave you flatfooted to meet
what always comes at you

out of the blue. Do not presume.
Toss the ball bat hard, twirling up

and churning in air. It will smack you
dead on, on the back of your head, dead

just because you presumed you could catch it.
Go ahead — humble yourself,

prepare for the wrecking ball
smashing into your office, the concrete slab

falling onto your car from a freeway bridge,
the market rotted and collapsing.

But even with many baskets stashed in many places,
they could all go up in smoke if they are

too close together, almost one, not clearly many.
Multiplicity, variety, plurality. Diversify

your escape routes, your fakeries that lead
to credibility. Trust only that chance

will tap your shoulder once
before it leaves, or ram your head

into the nail sticking out
behind the cat food in the garage

when you fall from the bottom step
because you didn’t hold on to the rail.

© V.B. Price