Poem No. 2: Class is an Archipelago

Class, in the way we talk about it,
a categorization of similar things
brought together by money -
or any other kind of capital,
is easy to fake. No?

But for those who are sharp,
who've been whittled down to their
breaking backs by manual,
intellectual, emotional,
spiritual, physical,
mental, dare I say
labor, will see
through.

The mind is
a quick blade.
And each pose
is noted.

Class, in the way I like to fantasize,
is like an archipelago. A cluster
of things visually dissimilar,
high, low, above, below,
seen and unseen -
various shapes
textures
styles.

Of, and in
its own;
in and
of itself.

The class of which I speak
is presence alone: an appearance
that speaks for its labor and
there is no need
to mark its meaning;
a crude value manifested from
talks walks clothes
taste opinions interests
etc / et. al

The class of which I speak
does not care - for this
cannot be taught, or earned
cannot be bought, or borrowed
cannot be ritualized
cannot be inundated by habit.

It is experienced by being
beat - dead beat - beat all the time
until nothing remains but the darkness.
That empty beautiful blackness
waiting, just waiting
for someone like you
to light it up.