Tag Archives: writing

LOST SOCK

LOST SOCK

lost sock
damp sponge
wet
   blanket

cold
fish

I see your name up
in lights however
straining my eyes
to read
the letters
from my worm’s eye
view so close to the ground

your
    vapid theme

unless I am
missing something, actually,
missing
             everything

the meaning of a poem
still escaping me
                   still seeming
like something
magically
     conjured out
              of thin air

cannot imagine how
hard I would lose, how
shown up
I would feel going
      one on one, head
to
  head with you

seriously needing
     to improve my game

pump up
my action not

to feel so steamrollered
when your next
exquisite
      petite volume
voluminously appears

lost sock
damp sponge

      even if I should win
no achievement here

WAYSIDE


WAYSIDE

the worst ones
that fell by the wayside
had to be poets

what other conclusion
can we come to?
what wealth do they bring
unto themselves
and unto all of humanity

with words and lines
well beyond the general reach?

I think about
why this
    should be so, plainly
it seems to resist explanation

this compulsion to
act otherwise, play
in a different key
sing
   a different song

so far beyond my comprehension
I have to reach for
the oddest of all metaphors
to get my head around it

FROZEN

FROZEN

my hands are frozen stiff
and yet
all this sitting
in the cold snow
in vain

nothing here
so
   beneath zero
able to cool the hot
zeal of the words themselves

lust for life no
matter how empty
how inconsequential
this life
       might well prove to be

my demons
marching across the page
demanding their right
to speak
   for themselves, go
the whole way

a wildfire about to happen
whilst I must, logically speaking,
submit to
        their will, to the right
of language to dictate
what it has to,
desires to, needs to

comply with the smart, counter
intuitive, freezing thinking,
with your
     frozen-solid conception 
of creation my dear
Monsieur Michel Foucault

idea
  that author is
the thing the poem itself,
this poem itself
             has issues with

confounding your dreamt of structure
        bringing it all
into one
mesmerizing sequence of
gorgeouslly miraculous fractal moments
       dancing, despoiling, flaunting
seducing, infecting,
                  overpowering

such resonance
birthing in the brain patterns of
wonder
            the world
            has not yet
had the pleasure to
                       discover it owns, it has, as
     has been ruthlessly revealed

and
    still stuck
in the snow

once again, these fingers freezing