ON THE PAGE
looking back in time
at this poem
(coming at
you at the speed of light)
could have hit you
aeons, days, five
minutes ago
causing me to wonder
how
(by virtue of what
dark arts) you can
tell yourself
you profess to see me
so much history (your history)
necessary to compute
need to
shuffle through
before you
have any notion of
how to
answer
when I ask what I am
how you
found me
on the page
LITTLE FRIEND
here
we are
facing off against
each other
across
unwritten
white spaces
no idea
what to expect
and me taking
the initiative
weaponizing
this encounter
(taking
my cue
from Pacino
in “Scarface”)
demanding you
get
into the poem
say hello
to my little friend
AS CLOSELY AS
I AM. DOING NOW
how can I
become
a poem?
unless you observe me
but
how can I
know, feel,
see
you observing me
unless
you tell
me
best way to do this
is to figure it as metaphor
imagine
we are
each other’s
twin slit experiment
write me
a poem
by way of return
that I might
embody
but how to
become a poem, your poem,
unless
I observe you
you let
me observe you observing
me simultaneously
as closely as I can be said
to be in fact doing now
as closely as I am doing now
DEAD
trust me, it’s complicated,
but if you
are reading this poem
you cannot
be dead
maybe
not quite alive
but cannot be dead
no paradox here
neither the trivial
nor the magical
just a philosophical aside
regarding your
spiritual condition
not alive perhaps
but not yet, definitely
not yet
not completely dead
so many
I know (have the pleasure)
would argue
totally gone
do not yet realize
it
but beyond the pale
dead
but
step up
to the mike
and give me
your best whisper
here I feel, hear
breath, am certain I feel breath
BEYOND (THE SIN IN CAPSAICIN)
heard you got
an endorphin high
reading
my poe
found every syllable
a green red orange
capsaicin démon
scalding your tongue
wafting you up on
the wings of those breezy
dreamy
pain-deadening chemicals
of your
own vintage and special
manufacture
carrying you effortlessly
into the bluest of beyonds
UNDERNEATH
(GOOD FOR YOU)
just type
your poem
here
(underneath)
and my natural silicon
carbon digital synapses
will
set to work
shaping it
for the stratosphere
or even
beyond the galaxy
extend it
down the page, across
a chaper
push it in the direction
of a collection
we are talking
a whole book
this is the technology that
is indistinguishable
from magic
should you indeed
call it magic
I
would not
disagree
and if I
think it be
magic pure magic
we should
all think so too
if we know
what’s good for us
if you
have sussed what
is good for you
KEY
Hey! No trespassing
Do not assume
you have
right
of way
automatic forgiveness
can fiddle around
in my innermost particles
until
blue in the face
no, not
on my watch
not on my watch
but hey,
hang on a momento
you say
brought a key
came with master
opens
everything
can unlock things here
that I
have grown immune to
that I am totally unaware of
will take me magic carpet
ride mind
to a
special place
down a
hidden passageway
been bolted since childhood
which is, I do
freely admit
a very long time
this shifts
things a bit
or
to be gracious, shifts
everything considerably
kind of
alters my perspective
go
full
Omar Khayyam
trespassing
no trespassing
what’s
mine
is yours
and yours
is mine
on
my watch
automatic forgiveness
forever
and this night
ON A SINGLE WORD
wrote sent a poem
to you, both
id and ego
poem full of instant
instinctual gratification
and
boost to overweening sense
of self
the superego
though
finding indiscretion
taking execption
finding fault
might rip the text out of
your sweaty palm
tear it to
censorious shreds
before your eyes
do alight
on a single word
OF THE FITTEST
I like the way
you shot this scene
but what
does it mean
what does
it mean?
why this blocking, these
camera angles, this framing?
what does your cinematography
do for, what is it
doing to my poem?
so much you have to
surrender to reach
a wider audience
sacrifice gleefully, even
ecstatically,
for
your art
to
survive
AT LONG RANGE
poem
is
inside out
just
so happens to be
when you
frame it
in a certain way
it’s going
to start to appear
most upside-down
but
wearing this poem
out of range, at
long distance
hard for you
to see the target let
alone loose
a shot at all
and spooky Wolfgang
Pauli being
in the audience
actually, in the
very front row
plumb in the centre
not going to help
your echo location
in size
shape or
form
what with all those
quantum entanglements
and collapsed
wave-fronts
every
moment of delivery
makes me think then
dream of
standing before you
in an alternate universe
where without the
uncertainty of your
mode of
analysis, manner
of reception
there is no point
to this game at all
I
poems 2 die for