Poem by Rick Christiansen


 

Eroded Hip Hop Complex

I.

KRUNK!

Say the dust motes falling into the sunlight before me.

An act of becoming and dissolving.
Our death is our wedding with these things.

I feel it in the firmness of each footstep taken.
And myself, in the lifting of that step.

The artisan searches for what is not there
In order to practice his craft.

I practice stillness in my movement.
I am not there.

II.

KRUNK!

Say the joints that ache while they dance through the floor.

Anxiety makes ME warm.
And so, I contribute to the process.

I make trinkets to prove that I exist.
I display them to force their existence.

Even tea will intoxicate.
If only you drink it quickly.

The body will nurture the mind and provide
bad advisement.

III.

KRUNK!

Say the utensils that I have laid down after their use

I am much too small a place to live.

I must stretch and groan into fullness.

I have pulled my own existence out of this fissure.
I have not forgotten the traces of my gifts.

I remember the poverty of emptiness.
I will not travel there again.

The flavor of optimism builds on my tongue.
And I swallow.

 

Artwork © j4

Artwork © j4

 

Rick Christiansen is a 58 year old guy with a unique perspective that comes from a lifetime with his legs in corporate America and his head in the clouds. He was last published in the 1970’s in a variety of college publications that he is now too old to remember. Recent early retirement has driven him back to the pen.

j4 is a collective of four persons, all given names beginning with j, who are compelled to explore transindividual composition.

 

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