Tag Archives: poetry

I TOLD MY ANDROID

I told my android
she was Jane Austen

told her
that she was
Sylvia Plath

told her that she
was Mary Shelley watching
the monster that
is me scratching
at her window

gave my
     dearly beloved android
a whole smorgasbord
of literary
   identities

PERFORMATIVE

the wind did not find
a door thought solid
much of a deterrence

simply carved its way
across the room

tornadoed about me
as if stairway-aspiring
to go spiral galaxy

was in no mind
to deliver blessings unless
shotgunned, scattered
in every direction
nailing you
nailing me
     the wounds and blood
fresh and sublimely
red as
   if sudden stigmata

and what
    might we do save
self-
submerge and drink it
all in eternal

moment of brutal
beauty so
      almost (nothing
closer)
   beyond everything

AND NOW I KNOW

I saw it
how you were
together with
loving that
man in
an alternate universe

bonded so close
nothing could, noone
dare
   wrench
you apart

saw that face
grow so different from
my own as the shape
could not have
differed
   more between
our separate trajectories

but at least
I saw
    what was there
indeed possible

and
now I know.

BOOMERANG

unleash
your verbs

let
them be;
let them do

let them
range freely, operate
upon
   subject to

make their
own headway

return to you
that ultimately you
might reclaim
them

best way foreward where
all these
           word-images of
power
      strike home, thereafter
boomerang

KING OF FRAGMENTATION

you are
the King of
         fragmen-
tation

you believe a single
slick heavy
metal riff

superior
to all the art and literature
laboriously crafted over
the entire
history
   of our species

and, as for that vast array
of shadows
        and monsters

not
a hope in Hell
of integrating those, alas!

OCTOBER POEM

I wander the streets
shortly after dusk this
last day
of October

they think
I am an artist
    even though it is
a huge can not
of paint
     but of darkness
I am
carrying this evening
fine and broad strokes
my world
    my canvass yet
as it disappears doing
nothing to
dispel
   any spurious faith
in such enterprise, much
to the contrary
exploiting
their misconceptions
fostering every illusion

blindsiding colour, extinguishing
the light

       so much still to do
a whole tryptich of
forever never

reminding all
and sundry

there
is no final, no complete,
in art, with the imagination

are
     just different species

of the fiction
      that years for
ending

but
    eschews its
own energies of closure

life and death
got the mosaic
                      here

every fragment
priceless

until
    here at the hub
of antimony

I erase that
     palimpsest of palimpsest
might be
paimted,
    written over