Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
I Can't Go On, I'll Go On
Dear potentate. If we don’t have a word for something,
do we then spend our whole lives searching for that word?
In Kraków, I climbed the hill to Wawel Castle, alone.
In Budapest, I climbed the hill to Buda Castle, alone.
It’s pitiful, the narrativization of experience: life reduced
to sound bites and hashtags, to grabby phrases and self-
aggrandizing anecdotes. Dear Bullmastiff, we love
to flatter ourselves, and others. We preen in reflective
surfaces like children discovering depth perception.
Beyond the I, the I. I have spent my life searching
for a word that I cannot, will not, know. Something
to do with the exhaustion of the possible, enchantment,
desire, and an unwillingness to breed. Dear mentor,
dear mentee, what’s the point of consciousness, if
it’s always at heel? We’re so completely fucked,
America, no matter what I say, no matter whether
ideas are learned or remembered, is my current theory
on aesthetics and the problem—aren’t they all—of God.
I get up, drink coffee, watch animal rescue videos
before reentering the slog, the drill, the grind.
As the Eagles say, take it to the limit, one more time.
Virginia Konchan is the author of a collection of poetry, The End of Spectacle (Carnegie Mellon, 2018), a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (Noctuary Press, 2017), and two chapbooks.