THE DISINTEGRATED MAN
for Marvin Bell
—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
__________
Michael Bazzett: “When I feel that someone’s opened up my head, without using any tools, and somehow given me a new set of eyes, that’s how I know it’s poetry.”
THE DISINTEGRATED MAN
for Marvin Bell
—from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
__________
Michael Bazzett: “When I feel that someone’s opened up my head, without using any tools, and somehow given me a new set of eyes, that’s how I know it’s poetry.”
THE EVERYDAY
—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014
__________
Michael Bazzett: “I write poems wondering how they’re going to end. The truth about where they come from, as far as I can tell, is contained within these brackets { }.”
THE LAST EXPEDITION
—from Rattle #40, Summer 2013
__________
Michael Bazzett: “I write poems because I’m curious about where they’re going to go.” (web)
Michael Bazzett
THE USEFULNESS OF MARRIAGE
The human race would have become a single
person centuries ago if marriage was any use.
–E.M. Forster
The first question that comes to mind
pertains to the actual physical dimensions
of this single person containing the human race:
would she, he or they (an awkward construction, yes,
but the inadequacy of words on this particular point
seems only to buttress Forster’s assertion)
stride through the forests, treetops brushing
roughly against the shins, with a glorious
cloud-kissed head riding high in the cool air?
Or would such a person be small and fairly sturdy, perhaps
five foot six, weighing about one hundred and forty
billion pounds, like the exponential mass of a collapsed star?
Containing all of your preceding partners
in a package of eternally increasing density
could put you under a lot of pressure, quite literally,
especially as you met and wooed and loved and
merged with others in this astonishingly effective
but difficult to explain process of achieved matrimony.
A nickel weighing as much as a boxcar comes to mind,
as does a crushed swing set, flattened
by a child with the tonnage of a humpbacked whale.
Under such pressure osteoporosis might
become a problem; finding a doctor could prove challenging
for this culminated entity sprung from some billion marriages.
But I find it even more compelling to climb
just a single branch higher into this gargantuan family tree
and perch there on that forked limb, in the dappled shade,
to consider the thought of those two penultimate figures
stalking the lonely and abandoned planet, calling out
one to another, yearning to achieve that final couple,
their mating song reverberating like twin harmonious foghorns
as they wade thigh-deep into the shallow seas and stalk the low hills
searching for their fellow semi-finalist in these majestic marital Olympics
until one day, at long last, a response reaches one huge ear
and the ground thunders as they fall into one another
and their mutual heat softens the earth beneath them.
In this moment they become that final person,
for better or for worse, having produced this one last union
only to discover a moment later that they are once again alone.
—from Rattle #36, Winter 2011
Michael Bazzett
EXPIRATION DATE
Those brief moments before the end
in which you find yourself the oldest person in the world
due to your proximity to death
as opposed to any accumulation of years
are happening all of the time.
For instance, these past seven seconds
have been monumentally important for someone
somewhere, but pretty much the same
for the rest of us. Perhaps you noticed
that quiet flicker of joy you felt just now
at being included in “the rest of us,”
but this really should serve as a reminder
that, yes, your time will come
and that there is a commitment on my part
to maintaining a certain level of awareness
regarding your impending demise
which could occur while I’m mowing
the lawn, or buying an avocado, or, god forbid,
looking at myself naked in the mirror.
The other morning I decided to start
practicing this underutilized skill,
of remaining fully cognizant of the expiration
of a life on this planet every 4.1 seconds,
but I have to admit that by about nine
I was exhausted by the compression of all those lives
pressing down onto their final moments
like granite grinding down onto a grain of sand.
That this plan of action first came to me
as I walked a dusty trail rimming a canyon
and encountered a pair of grasshoppers
amorously linked on a mound of coyote scat
probably means something,
and the fact that as we walked
my young son was avidly explaining
that we’d been warriors together in the time before,
he with his rifle, me with my trident,
probably means something as well.
If this sudden awareness was sent
as a harbinger and you’re reading this now,
after the date of my expiration, perhaps
these words possess a resonance
that will put both my children through school.
But if I’m still here, and you’re listening
as I read this in a voice that is never as good
as the one I hear inside my head
and you’re thinking: Oh. Well. He’s still alive.
Then clearly the meaning is going to have to come
from somewhere else and you need
to get to work on this, on making some connections:
the grasshoppers, the trident, the coyote pile
above that canyon that took so long to carve:
the disparate points are all there,
just draw the lines of the constellation
and when darkness falls, maybe,
we’ll have a chance to navigate our way out of this place.
—from Rattle #29, Summer 2008