Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Poet's Korner

In the following piece, though purportedly an exercise in poetics, Korner kontributor Fig Nugent deals in the hermeneutic qualities of language in a starkly direct way. We're unclear if his source of dismay is the American experiment, The Kreation Korner itself, some other apparatus, or all of the above. In any case, although we aspire to be a purely egalitarian and communal enterprise, we acknowledge that we currently operate as a limited hierarchy out of necessity in our reality. In light of that, we welcome opportunities to check in with ourselves and make sure we're not straying too far off the path of righteousness. We strongly encourage all those in positions of power the world over to solicit and take to heart input from your thoughtful, knowledgable, creative subordinates, especially when making decisions that affect their livelihoods and happiness. Take seriously:

"Sadly, The Only Outlets I See Are For Electrical Power And Discount Dungarees"
By Fig Nugent

I need an outlet
I have given a great deal
to this organization, this
agency, this institution
I have compromised much
and retained few, mostly
superficial, remnants of
my individuality and convictions

I have done this willingly
I have chosen to not cling
unwaveringly to doctrine
for practical purposes, for
comfort and stability, for
psychological and emotional ease
I have accepted such concessions
as necessary to survive, as
compulsory in my circumstances

But I have moments of exhaustion
in the ceaseless morass
of ethical gray areas
I'm often disillusioned by decisions
made to serve the politics of
the moment rather than reasoned
long-term core values and vision

I tell myself this is just what life
is and employ petty, ephemeral
acts of rebellion only I really notice
to restore order for my
psyche in the meantime
I commiserate with likeminded
peers but those in power
seem ignorant and indifferent

I'm told implicitly and sometimes
explicitly to be happy, to be
grateful, that this is just
a job, to get along but
I can't shake the feeling
that's just some insidious means
to silence dissent, to compromise
what remaining shreds of
ideals I have

I can "toe the line" most days,
shake off of the sneaking
feelings of anxiety and guilt
But lately the weight is persistent
I can't laugh it off or shrug or move
on but there's no chance for catharsis,
no suggestion box, no arena for debate,
no outlet to be heard out, no quarter
for whistleblowers who demand one

The atmosphere is one of imposed
consensus, of forced harmony, of
"business as usual"
And so I trudge on with a heavy
burden on my conscience in this
organization, this agency, this
institution, hoping, probably
in vain, for one measly, hell,
even a token outlet

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