David Mutschlecner
Martin Heidegger and Ezra Pound
(An Enigma Lies Apriori in Every Relation)

Pale green buffalo grass,
soft, moves off
to the lawn's lean jetty that edges
the parking lot —

far nub lit up with lupin,
standing purple for three feet —
color, before the searing heat
takes it down in late June.

And now it is late July. Heidegger,
the question of being has been cut
with the being of the question
for nearly a century. The question

jetties from its continental
body, out to the isolate
dot of leftover dried purple.
Who thinks, who cares

who thinks, who dares
— from the stereo: cyclic
lyric spun to one self-
searcher: dasein. The front man

in the heavy band
runs along the jetty from the stage
out into the audience. On his earphone
he can hear guitar, bass, and drums

balanced with his voice. He sings
at the center of incredible volume
of which he is a part: one with an audience
to his own voice. He is wireless,

without connection, out in the middle
of five thousand darkened faces — the pure roar
of relentless ocean. Enigma
and light trade places — the beam

over surging waves. What gleams
in the metal posture? How fast
it all
becomes reflex.

We have done our best;
we have come
close as we can
to severing being

from meaning, seemingly
unaware that once
the tendon is cut, both
are lost to us.

The pierced word rises through the roar —
the piercing question — the undistorted
presencing of the thing
in wind of an unknown source. Sound

goes past the probing edge, the specially
constructed stage
whose meaning is exhausted
in constructed charisma.

What is this goes past the voice.
What juts through —
an irruption as from
the audible ground

as if the apex of volume
gave birth to its other side. The far off
front man's purple shirt
waves in and out of hot light. His voice lost

in a stillness that reclaims us
even while the solo sears us.
Alethia: revealingness.
From the mass

of sound, some missa. Alethia:
a flower's name
when opening.
As if from the surge

of the irrational
we might reach
A Station of the Metro. These faces,
these faces, and the beauty

of the ringing night. The afterlight
of the question: why do we see
past dried up sight?
A moon in the sum of it,

or past that too,
a beginningless beginning (we can still
make it new). A far nub of thought
where late headlights turn over lupin.