What To Do About It

A prosy poem for STSC Symposium: Resolution

Composition with Four Figures, Max Weber, 1910

Four figures facing each other:
non-symmetrical, call it a rhombus,
on extremely awkward stools:
three-legged and wooden and loose,

so low the four were forced to squat,
knobby knees straining, dangerous squeaks
with every move, uncertain of their
respective weight. A single bulb

above them. Dour-faced, discomfort of
sitting only secondary to the urgency
of the moment, or at least they claimed.
They had come here to discuss

What to Do About It.

The Writer, the Painter, the Musician,
and the Poet. They assigned themselves
responsibility for the world as it was,
and the disaster they knew was coming.

For the Writer, the moment could not be
divided from the policies that brought it;
the Painter preferred to change how
everything was represented. The Musician

argued it was an environmental concern,
a matter of community and city planning.
The Poet insisted on something spiritual,
but of course she was the only one who

took it to mean within herself. The others
had squared their spiritual selves somewhere
between their first abusive relationship
and falling back on their day job.

What to Do About It?

Self-assigned responsibility to history.
The single bulb as pale as their worried
crinkling over ink-stained paper, not all
scrawled by the Writer, who nevertheless

had the worst handwriting of the bunch
(the Musician, actually, had lovely penmanship),
at this point there was the matter of
manifesto, organization, and call-to-action:

holding accountable themselves, how to
hold accountable others, where to account
for nuance, who to be the accountant,
where to raise the funding, how to maintain

non-hierarchical respect and influence
in the presence of a budget and public
attention, whether the works be published,
what their price should be, how much

to return to the mission, how much to
return to their glory (of course none
expected returns to pay their cellphone
bill, but perhaps, if they started a support

fund?), all the proper work of fair and
balanced creative talents considering
secretly their new endeavor in light of
their body of work and how it'll look

in the history books, for they agreed
one and all that this was an historical
fluxus, the intermural of monsters, 
widened gyres, and resolutions to figure out

What To Do About It,

collectively of course, but individually
as well, co-leaders in meetings because
the world needed a leader, new culture,
new ways of thinking, and what are artists

but producers of possibilities society
refuses to negotiate? The four figures'
special value, self-evidently, was to
the potential the world left unfulfilled.

(Inside one and all was the fear of their
own failure of potential.) The naked bulb
fluttered. They had ceased to perceive
the shape and structure of their surroundings.

Outside war raged... somewhere. A violation
of human rights happened every minute. 
Statistics held the scores the economists
ignored while it was the empaths' job to

give suffering the face of character and
story, to say, "Don't look away!" to crowds
of people browsing for new entertainment.
To ask of always decaying institutions

to support always new institutions in the
hopes of building newer institutions so
their artwork could be institutionalized 
(and maybe pay their cellphone bill).

What To Do About It?

The matter meets the moment and
the moment has changed. While the
four figures' failed to unify, another 
disastrous event occurred. History,

it seems, had not even not ended, it
hadn't even waited. Only urgency was
renewed. The stool under the Writer
broke. The bulb fizzled and spit.

A new war broke out... somewhere.
The Painter painted the map. Poet
and Musician could swear they knew
someone from that country they could

bring on board as a cultural consultant.
The memes populated faster than
their work. Their work, assuredly, was
purer. This is the time to get to work.

It was time Writers, Painters, Musicians,
and Poets came together, met in common
ground, reached out in mutual resolution,
to decide—the bulb burst overhead—

 What To Do About It. 

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This prosy poem is presented for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Each month STSC members create something around a set theme. This cycle, the theme was “Resolution.”

If you are a writer, you might consider joining us.

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To experience my previous STSC Symposium submissions:

To read my previous Uncanny Stories: