The Artist’s Wife

My sentence is this: to fall in love
with an immortal sort of being
whose eyes may look daily upon me
without ever truly seeing.
My sentence is thus: to pretend to be
one of this destined class;
and so, standing amid such gold,
I paint myself with brass.

The Best Medicine

Tommy has taken too much medicine

and now Tommy’s tummy aches

“It hurts! It hurts!” he cries

and tears trickle from his eyes

Tommy is trembling

why, he can hardly breathe!

Maybe he should not have put

this remedy to the test

Surely he now believes

this prescription of laughter is best

Hit-or-Miss

Kind of a lopsided thing, that

Miss miss miss miss

Hit

Miss

More like it.

The hissing of arrows whizzing

By the target

Usually drown

out the slap 

and shatter of clay

Pigeons.

More awkward stutters and 

Falling 

out of it

Than 

Graceful partings and double pirouettes.

Trying to console 

my soul

I make it sometimes.

I yell against the sea of

usually Not’s.

For the Modern Thinker

Behold, the sophisticated glories of Wit
the harms that only we can understand,
we who on this mountain of cleverness sit,
and marvel at the work of our own hands.

Why glorify we this quickness of mind
and not the timelessness of true thought’s call?
Here, lost in this sar-Chasm I find
there is little thought to be found at all.

– E

The city is a blizzard

The city is a blizzard

and I hate to stand in the storm

It’s chaotic and icy

and I prefer the warm

The people are frozen

and yet look how they swarm

Sure, each snowflake is different

but to the white they conform

They shout about Uniqueness

as they fall in uniform

Why, I’m buried alive!

But here that’s the norm

I’m drowning in people

and I will not reform

I will die in this blizzard

As the snowflakes shout, “Conform! Conform!

We’re unique, can’t you see?”

But alas, I shall suffocate here in the city

The Ballad of the Noose-Weaver: For the Modern Reader

Said the poet: tis to be a rhyming year,
and fearfully went hunting for a simile —
it was madness, when the right words were so very proximate,
but these days, even Verse demands to be liberated.

Said the poet: here I shall add uneven lines that lack cohesion and dawdle to the margins
AbStractIoN found IN grapEfruit
where there once was music, I will burn the beethoven, make ashes to rove in
with 5/8 or 7/16 crow
bars, ignoring the
oMens, beat
ing themselves to death
inter
rupting pulse after
pulse

(and apparently this is the truest portrait of the human soul)

come
posers

it is the modern way
there will be no rhyme
or rhythm today

Said the poet: lo! I have seen my coming hearse
but, even so, I will weave my fine noose of verse.

– E

Photograph courtesy Acton Wright.

To Whom it May Concern

All of my poems have had addressees lately
so it seem only fair, if the words come not,
it can only be that the postman of my subconscious
is either lost or drowning in that mailroom of thought.

And at one time there was a message to be carried here
but at present, its subject has been forgot;
at one time we had everything to fear (or so I fear)
— how then do these musty words worry not: “Worry not” ?

– E

Interrogating the Self

To all the versions of myself
that have been and ever will be
I kindly implore you to stop this effort
of destroying what remains of Me

Because yesterday I was tired
and today I am tired still
and though I am losing the best bits of Myself
I never expected to lose My will.

To all the faces I have worn
and that single heart that beats inside
I address this question: why mourn you she
(that is Me) as one who’s died?

– E