TAKES YOU BACK
tell me
about simplicity
three chord song
garage band
haiku where
every breathing syllables
cut with
a scalpel
but there again complexity
structures with
levels nested
within
levels
incredible
architecture
you followed all
the arrows and
then were
surprised
to find yourself
facing
you humming
a simple tune
you either never
heard before
or
takes you back
TAKES YOU BACK
tell me
about simplicity
three chord song
garage band
haiku where
every breathing syllables
cut with
a scalpel
but there again complexity
structures with
levels nested
within
levels
incredible
architecture
you followed all
the arrows and
then were
surprised
to find yourself
facing
you humming
a simple tune
you either never
heard before
or
takes you back
POEM IS WAITING FOR ME
poem
is waiting for me
but I am not there
pen and
paper crying out
but no words, no letters,
nothing there
on the page
to remain
unread
to add nothing,
exactly nothing
maybe
I should tell the poem
to switch itself
to go
automatic pilot
where I
feel that
there is nothing
to say,
no place to
start
poem can write itself
fill the page with
brilliance or
nonsense
whatever it feels
on the whim
of the moment
whatever it
absolutely has
to say
express from
its core, its heart,
plunder from the depths
find
a truth to explore
simply
fill the page with
add
its piece
to all that has
been written, revered
and so much talked about
HOMELESS
homeless
a liability
writing
dark, empty,
self-pitying poems
not
my usual style
not my
best voice at all
and yet
still I think I commandeer
a huge expanse
own a slice
of this planet, a
piece of everything
was forged in the unbelievable
heat of a star
too precious
to fail so abysmally
TALKING ABOUT
disappear me
unwrite my poetry
erase every
shred of evidence
that I was ever around
the world needs to know
how better off
it is now
every
moment
without me
not that
when it gets told
it will have
any
idea
what you were talking about
unless I am
much mistaken
unless this poem
these poems
thrive in
my absence
kind of find
themselves
lingering around
SAVED
all those books burning
in that same library.
where before
things got messed
we used to chat
and I caught sight
of you once
strutting your stuff
in a giant white stetson
all those books
we both used
to read
much oneupmanship
between us
for some sad reason
and we exchanging words
at a distance about this tragedy
but there
I am before I ever met you
outside such a storm
creeping across the mountain
the rain slashing down
across
the entire peninsula
me immersed in the Upanishads
reading the great text
on the return
of the soul to the one
like drop into ocean
we
all one
and you my
forever one
though nothing close
to union
ever between us
somehow
that fire in my heart
always burning
consuming
never going out
PRECIOUS
Look at these
they are truly precious
the standard 7.62 mm
Maxim machine-gun rounds
that killed
Wilfred Owen
cutting the supply
of his poetry
increasing demand.
LINE
It was cold
freezing cold
so I started burning books
to get warm
enough to survive
survive
and wrote poetry
I burnt
my entire library
but all
I came up with
was a poor, single, line.
AT ALL
readers refused me
doors, windows,
mirrors,
refused me
when I disappoeared
nobody cared
nobody knew
it was as if
I never existed
as if I did exist
yet didn’t at all
RIVER
was crying
for myself
and not
for humanity
pretty shameful this
when you think about it
those tears
dribbling down my cheeks
like watching
Field of Dreams
the final scene
where crying
for everbody, for
us all
there
tears would flow
like a giant, winding river
poems 2 die for