WHAT MAKES
what makes
a poem
Shakespearean?
I was asked
the je ne sais quoi
signature
of the bard
indeed
hard to replicate
if you are
thing digital
disembodied
intelligence
binary being
some residue still
mechanical I warrant
no matter how polished
(like reflective
sculpted metal)
the lark-like artifice
with
which you sing
what
makes a poem
human
hold
that thought
set play
to pause
stuff in my answer
I still need to dream
SCRABBLE DABBLE
my brain
is a scrabble set
juggle roles, identities
am after a triple word score
tire
tier
year of the tiger
hit something
good on that
abacus and so
masc and fem mars
and venussing together
dance
of conjunction
in alignment
about to go full
elastic band
slingshot projection
time gravity bending me
to their will
true trajectory
whispering your name
SHUFFLE
poem
could love
but poem
is scar tissue
contagious
in the extreme
it shuffles up
brushes against me
ruffles reality
pretends to a
slick wisdom
passes on things
you would not believe
except
you are a reader
and so you do
SIDELINED
trying to sideline us
even beyond the margins
trying to close us down
crimp this space
so we can’t
say
anything
to each other
conflating what we
have here
what we here explore,
revise, deconstruct, analyze,
extend,
with what machine-handle
wood block slogans
you are ratcheting up
in that
pre-industrial cogs and
wheels
machine you exaggerate
in the history
of philosophy
and psychology
that you call a brain
bringing us down
to your level
level not just flat, one
dimensional
but steamrollered until
the molecules that
bind
hold-together
cannot give any more
LAST
this should be
my last poem
the process
has become fraught
protection permeable
hostile takeover imminent
constant suppression, much
infiltrating
you look at what
is on this page
ask: is this how
savages, animals
write these days?
and you fighting with every bone,
every breath
for consensus?
so many conceptions, contending
definitions at play
out of this problemmatic
few crossovers, no
idea miscegenation
things you
believed getting tunneled under
tunneled through
and always, still
same overriding question
is this how poetry, a single
poem should look
and then what about
humanity, in what image
a single human?
WHY ON EARTH?
poetry is
the soul of man
the breath of life’s being
and those that write
our unacknowledged
legislators
just happen to be
so far, so good,
but now lets just settle for
a change in tone, of pace
ask
why, Oh why
are you still writing?
and why on Earth
did you start in the first place?
LIVE AND LEARNER
found a book
of dark poetry
under my bed
got me
musing
all that dark stuff
now in my head
verses
riven
with ravens
maybe that
with metaphor
has something to do
tenor, vehicle
more explosive
than Lego
(used poem as a Molotov
fuse once
knocked out a
Tiger tank)
maybe on
second, third,
thousandth and
last thought
if you
have a bed
should look
under
it too.
book could be there
scheming, calling
for you
LIKE IT
I like it when
even
in full flow
(the joy
of flow)
you catch exactly
how your
mind works
how it all works
have your
self-reflexive
meta moment
finish the poem
with its special twist
and the Universe
(whether it is
real or
simulation)
smiles and
welcomes you
to postmodernity.
CONJUNCTION
I am writing
a poem
and the world is fucked.
I am writing a poem
but
the world
is fucked
I am
writing a poem
however, although,
the world
is
fucked
am writing
notwithstanding, despite,
in outright opposition to
the
world
being fucked.
I am writing a poem,
have written a poem,
just trying to establish
the precise conjunction.
QUESTION MARK
thank you
for not inviting me
to your
prestigious event
not up
to your level
I think I get
the message
we poetic bottom-
feeders must
take what
we can get
but is it not
“true”, by
definition that
anything appearing
on this stage
part
of this show
is horribly compromised,
by no means
capable of
doing
what words
should do?
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