In Rodrigo Toscano’s The Charm and The Dread, the unraveling of the American Imperium is rendered frontally, through strange adjacencies. Always an astute observer of tectonic shifts in political culture, Toscano plumbs the inter-locking crises that have kicked us into these 2020’s. From formal sonnets to high-speed screeds unspooling syntax, uncanny portraiture to earnest inquiry and appeal to specks of emergent new moralities, Toscano’s ninth collection is a guidestar for our time. The Charm and The Dread jostles political and aesthetic complacency, and invigorates us toward a viable baseline attitude for the new decade. A somatized, personified trajectory as synaesthetically rich as that of tarot or any other hallowed divinatory tool of the ages, The Charm and the Dread brings a naturalized, dreaming body into an awake state in the traumascope of virtualized pandemic humanscape, the place in which we can again breathe, and speak. In these poems we find that the pandemic is “an interiority in search of an externality.” Speaking and breathing these rhapsodic scripts of good-humored yet uncompromised, felt-and-seen engagement of our complete catastrophe, we move from “The crimson yellow of no past // The charcoal pink of no future” through “the squander of recourses // Of leadership” into real encounters with Justice, Revolution, and Flesh. Prescient and unafraid to look, Rodrigo Toscano asks, “What’s the use of any [insurrection] today //If tomorrow and many days to come // Aren’t shaped differently, aren’t lived differently”?
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Rodrigo Toscano’s previous books include In Range, Explosion Rocks Springfield, Deck of Deeds, Collapsible Poetics Theater (a National Poetry Series selection), To Leveling Swerve, Platform, Partisans, and The Disparities. His poetry has appeared in the anthologies Voices Without Borders, Diasporic Avant Gardes, Imagined Theatres, Dialectical Imaginaries, Earth Bound, and Best American Poetry. He works for the Labor Institute as a national project director, strategizing around issues that involve environmental and labor culture transformation. Originally from San Diego, and after 16 years in Brooklyn, NY, he now lives in New Orleans, LA.
Mundus
Let’s have a look at the world in seconds
Not by what you’re being told, as I’m being told
Let’s do a little tech check, see what’s wonky
Locally, yeah, globally, for decades
We called for regional dependency
And got a sloppy joe of nation state
We called for superconductive labor
Across cubicles and vibrant valleys
Not to mention industrial sink holes
“Here goes the project on course in due time
Here go the nights of leisure and dreaming”
Let’s have a look at the world, day by day
They send us an invoice for self-image
We transfer currencies of disbelief
Eye of the Storm
You don’t want a plane crash in your backyard
To wake you up to matter, its contours
Same for sound, if sound’s grown that dull to you
Not to mention smell: no need for plane crash
If your imagination’s running dry
Or if you need a sense of urgency
Or an event to help you spin a tale
A plane crash is something that’s way too much
Like a voter suppressed fall election
Springing everybody into action
Unmooring sensuous life in its path
And despite the odds being fifty-fifty
A serene hole in the sky opening
You venture this speck of time to say: no
Coconuts
You said, “what’s missing here is coconuts”
In a handstand on the hood of your car
In a crowded shopping mall parking lot
In the long summer of twenty twenty
Buck naked, rainbow against a black sky
Eyes side to side, straining a focused grin
“What’s missing here is coconuts” and then
You jumped on the roof of your car, arms wide
Pissing while reciting a hundred times
“Payroll tax cut now? Pay full sum later?
But if we vote you in, sum forgiven?”
And as the mall patrol was approaching
You slinked into a sort of shark outfit
Thrashing off like a senator beach pimp
The Mounds
Tips of spears, pottery shards, how bones lay
Shell’s beach of origin, which way stones point
Mounds not clear to the eyes at first, rising
Kinda mushy (by now) generations
Of grass, of ceaseless rain, blurring the lines
Of forethought, persistence, endurance, wit
Rendering the scene (truth be told) vacant
To eyes and ears tethered to blinking screens
Superstructures driving your sex by bits
You think it was different back in the day?
Smokey campfires, come gather round, listen
Hear those that came before, left all this junk
As we fast ditch our junk, dreaming deep space
Always deep space is sex as skulls retrieved
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