Henry Miller went hungry a lot
in Paris
but he fed enough blood
to his bitte
to summon command performances
on a regular basis
you can't gain an advantage
by lining up in the neutral zone
show me something
I haven't seen
like Tilda Swinton's tit
flashed in a movie
I can't remember the name of
but it was good
(partially because of that)
what if everyone woke up at the same time?
(think of all the pancakes that would have to be made)
try
not to get too high
or too low
as they are both impostors
impermanent states of mind
that come and go
come and go
like the shifting breeze
the middle path
slow and steady as she goes
( occasional detours into the gutter allowed)
that's the ticket
1.
You think that you've written down
the thoughts
that were lonelier
than all the thoughts
that were written down before you
or after you
but you are wrong
2.
I'm reading some poems by Jewel
(don't smirk--she's "intriguing")
I am told
I'm adored by millions
but no one calls
and one can only think
then...
what chance have I?
3.
Poets never say what they mean
they just expect you to figure it out
4.
Maybe
that's why you're alone
(even in a crowd)
as they've all given up
on trying to figure you out
5.
Opaque
isn't that intriguing
to those who are searching
for the light
6.
James Wright always told you
what his poem was about
right up front in the title...
he shared that trait with Degas
who would do a painting of
a dancer in front of a window
and name it "Dancer In Front Of A Window"
7.
While I sit lonely
by a fountain
where naked cherubs
are pissing away my dreams
knowing that collaborationists
stalk their own shadows
while pigeons goose-step
through the square--
but none can tell you whether ghosts
sit up and listen to the footsteps
that echo through an empty museum
8.
And maybe if you search and search
you can find another poet
who has described the human condition as
full frontal lonely
but I'd like to think that one
is all my own
9.
And I am alone
as you are alone
as we are alone
imprisoned within these shells
straining to touch palms
through the glass
10.
...I have my books
and my poetry to protect me...
what I did
what I didn't
truly of no import now
after falter
before correction
the man who seeks to make connection
finds the days of infinite possibility have flown
but only because a world turned deaf
and blind has deemed it so
the ego
in its fatal attraction to the body
must always lose
.
11.
There now
no more whimpering
face it like The Man
monolithic in his solitude
as all mill about like ants
resigned to his fate
to go out in a blaze of glory
lighting up the desert sky
on a Saturday night
on a spinning blue pelota
somewhere
lost in space
I like women
who write like men
and men who write
like women
somewhere in the middle
they meet
in a smoky androgynous haze
where they size
(and feel)
each other up
coming
at long last
to their defining moment
with no compulsion
for going under the knife
Some look
really geeky
some look
really dorky
and a few
so arrogantly
self-assured
but I was there
and I know
that was whistling
through the graveyard
