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.
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
Kind of a lopsided thing, that
Miss miss miss miss
More like it.
The hissing of arrows whizzing
By the target
out the slap
and shatter of clay
More awkward stutters and
out of it
Graceful partings and double pirouettes.
Trying to console
I make it sometimes.
I yell against the sea of
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.
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
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
ing themselves to death
rupting pulse after
(and apparently this is the truest portrait of the human soul)
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.
Photograph courtesy Acton Wright.
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” ?