NONE
this is a shadow
written by an echo
written by something
that itself ended up
shadow on a bridge
smudge on a wall
not as text
etched into steel
burned into bark
as the tree suffered
words of fire, image
violent as lightning
revelling in the power of the word
now there are none
STOP MOTION POEM
this is my
stop motion
animation poem
took thousands of shots
of the poem as it
unfolded in
the process
of writing it
stuck them all together
advancing them
frame
by frame
see how, magical it appears
ss if, before your very eyes,
the poem
is writing itself
cartoon mechanism revealing
serious
metaphysical meaning,
emotional truth
AMONGST THE EXPENDABLE
it is the small
swuidgy, rather
pathetic sins
of the poor
that outrage the gods,
elicit their contempt and fury
lead to punishment inflicted
consonant with all
you believe
in your dark theology
of a divine law supremely
vacuous in
its viciousness
not to be compared, or
mentioned in the same breath
of the immaculate sins
of great
heroes and leaders
the Greeks at Troy the.
patricians of Rome
the political elite utterly
at home
on Epstein island
whose infractions, at
first glance horrendous
are things
viewed from high
Olympus
divinity adores
confirming their trust
in these best
kinds of people
in no sense expendable
as with the lowest of the low
THE PAINT
the paint wore off
and with it a sense
of vibrant
ordinariness
and with it,
of course, the graffiti
spelling out the rich and
quite vicious
concerns of and life
in Rome
and where
the disjunctions arise
where voices
have their say, not
buying
into the myths entirely
see here, in this corner,
in the coarsest Latin imaginable
an up to date dossier
on the most
recent excapades clandestine
and extramarital
of none other than
the great
Julius Caesar himself?
IMPETATOR
and this is
the plain God’s truth
as to where
you
are now
what your history has
done to
change you
from what
you were
ending the democracy
for which
you were never
really, actuallt suited
gave
you your Imperator
so useless and stupid but
what you
were ready to
die for
finger on the button
about to
annihilate
humanity
that scum of
the Earth, beings
far less
exceptional
than you
WE DIG
We dig
for what
was written
may turn
a new page
on what
is here
old ideas
predated
by new ones
it is
a race against time
to find them
before
they
before we
are allowed
to disappear
we dig
for what
was written
what is there
hidden for us
hidden from us
could confirm,
undermine
every single thing
we just
so happen
to believe.
DARK POETRY
no twist, turn,
switch
though by all means
a switching on
of the light
a searching, probing
light
the kind survelling the landscape
scanning the skies
enough luminosity there
to scare anyone away
from
subterranean explorations
writing dark poetry,
commonplace anathema
who knows in
the darkness
what razor’s edge
what peril to hard-won
community?
what sways and bends, plunges
deep into itself
goes full on despair
of Garden of Gethsemane
petals of
blood there
to be seen?
yes
what we have here
must say what it says write
as is written
in the absence of light
suddenly that which dazzles
what
the reader demands
never
an abyss, no dark
night of the soul
NEW YORK HAIKU
twenty two years
since was
in Manhattan
since then been
working ceaselessly
on writing
my New York
haiku
nothing bridge and tunnel
something right
out the island
one
hundred
percent city
figure
a year for each
syllable, a decade
for revision
forgetting about everything
extraneous, in
no way conducive
to the
realization of
the dream
I am chasing
the final
stroke of
my pen
distilling
everything
RELAPSE
here again
I relapse into
poetry
has to be
a syndrome
think I need
to get it
checked out
imagine myself
in the consulting room
being examined,
waiting upon
the diagnosis
fearing
that this might
just be incurable
a sickness
handicapping me
for the rest
of my life
ending what we
have here
on such
a downbeat
need to
write something
to provide
counterbalance
something dancing
across the page
brimming with life
MEASURE
measure this poem
give it substance
give it
a location
somewhere in that
relativized field
of space slash time
slash everything you
have ever read your
brain is filtering through
to bring
you ready to go
find , see yourself
in this quintessential moment
as for me
I will just look back
on the process
that brought
me here
put me on
this page
a ghostly presence
a whispered voice
a teasing
play of
sound and sense
only clue
to you
I may have
found my way
to drop a
hint
of life,
suggestion of
touch
put
this as
hypothesis
of length and breadth
and depth
and time
somewhat
transparently
before you
EVERYDAY
here we are
everyday words
everyday themes
will string you
along with me
for a few moments
I call stanzas
hopefully
you will find yourself
somewhat entertained
perhaps even thinking
this is do it yourself simple
ridiculously easy
writing yourself into new everydays
COMPENDIUM
sorry to
bother you
drag you away
from what
you are doing
to tell you
to keep writing
writing writing
don’t let
them get to you
give me, a, compendium
show, me your heartfelt
give me
your best work
let them read
what you have written
watch their sky
turn turtle
power
of your
words
got them playing hopscotch
through textual minefields
so much horsepower
surging through this compendium
write what you want. every style and font
words long
as a
brontosaurus
tiny
as a flea
write
beautifully
write insanely
show
contempt
show respect and
true endearment
and, if they try to stop
you flex muscle
get your head down
flex all that muscle
write twice as hard
thrice as crazy
five
times as determined
expend energy
blow a gasket or
two
So
let them get
the message
my message to you
being
the thing we
got to keep shouting
KEEP WRITING
KEEP WRITING
write
to the death
my darlings
don’t let them
suppose, impose, repose,
ever presume to
presuppose
throw
the whole book to
get at you
yes, I think you’ve got it,
can hear it
bouncing around in your
head: keep writing writing writing
no compronises
the more they try
to stop you
the more you need
to bunker down
with paper
and pen
power through, say
what
you have to say
do
what you have to do
THOMAS
I came across a
wandering consciousness
attenuated, stretched thin,
tight as
a bowstring
wanting to sing like
an angel but
with a mouth full
of hourglass sand
and him in the desert
burned dry by drought
and yet
by spiritual fire
a pilgrim, seer to
the core
shaman even
yet dressed so dapper
as if in tiny thrall
to the demand of the pristine
these figures of balance
first the thunder
(and who
can do it better?)
and then
the softness, whispers,
soft rasping like
abrasive snakeskin
rattler
from that
ever expanding continent
where you
were born
which you duly renounced
somewhat on faith, also
perhaps a degree
of calculation
and love
you for it
how could they fail to
and so we met
you
at that moment
though already
the greatest of us all
one I knew
only most
vaguely
finding you here
walking
somewhere, if not
entirely linear
clear
in destination
shadowed by
something ghostly yet
incredibly present
and me
there amazed, so in need
of this inspiration, this
conjunction
only now
at last
able to see what
it all did mean.
poems 2 die for