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My Poetry and Commentary on Life

  • This Writer’s Beginnings: EarlyYears
  • Bread Loaf Influence
  • Rock and Roll High School
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  • (cliff edge)

    by

    existential angst, fragments, life, poetry, thinking




     . . . break upon these rocks jagged and sharp like fangs as if I or we or you stood upon some cliff waves worrying the shore instead of here surrounded by students or books or business associates anticipating a sale or nervous passengers on the plane thinking about anything but the inevitable rise and landing a metaphor a word rough scratches on stone broken chips of terracotta some transformation into something more profound more meaningful because it is not what lies on the surface it lies and lies faster with more urgency ingenuity than politicos caught in lies deeper past the viscera embedded on the ubiquitous the cloying the fur a tang an alum over across the atoms the mesons pisons neurons dendrites phonemes morphemes genomes my word vertigo hand flies to forehead in a stock romantic gesture then back upon the cliff dizzy sea breeze catches my voices dispersing like mist into the infinite sky senseless again a departure from here and the coughing whispers air-conditioned noise adolescent brains breaking on words stones clack on tiles other voices slip through the game’s maze tell me a story love adventure heroics beyond this room this school this suburb this country this page safely filtered through bowdlerized texts minds afraid to speak close to any belief cowed by bludgeons of ignorance into ignorance like rocks pounding rocks a pulverizing tattoo to mark the earth mar the ear with safe metaphor we hold these truths without thought without reason with reason and thought false constructs follies fabricated to form a significance from air blow wind smoke sinuous rises from beneath trees resists momentarily hanging above the cliff then forms itself to the wind and lets go. . .

    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001-April 2003)

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  • Dream Journal # 14: Woken Into the Dark

    by

    dream, fear, poetry

    with a rod and a chain
    placed like lace on skin
    you will be opened up
    (to whom for what)
    and then compared
    (to what to whom)
    promises brush
    your ears like dust
    wherever you are
    whoever you’re with
    come for me
    come with me
    (August 25, 2013)

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  • immanent arrival

    by

    borders, life, liminal, love, metaphor, poetry

    over the horizon’s edge
    about to break across
    a line neither of us
    can see the transition

    being so translucent
    like  gilt laden halos
    of medieval saints
    reflected in the still

    water of baptismal fonts
    that any second of this
    moment could turn to unfold
    around us like an embrace

    of long parted lovers
    passing on the street
    (August 24, 2013)

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  • (weight of the rubble)

    by

    dissatisfaction, existential angst, fragments, hope, poetry



    the weight of the rubble
    the cold thwank
    of iron on rock
    “How much do you carry, mother?”
    a burden beyond compare
    the moon:
    lashes curved
    an iris aware
    “Who dares disturb the dust?”
    nearby gravitas
    not even an echo
    of laughter
    to relieve the darkening air
    “Where do you find the time?”
    now, here, nowhere else
    a fire burns
    among the ruins
    on roofless walls

    (from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 203)

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  • (exposure)

    by

    doubt, fragments, life, poetry


    any second i will be exposed found out the fairy tale emperor nude on the street not that anyone would notice for after all who is interested in others more than oneself enough to pay attention that closely to find more than surface faults a button dangling loose on a thread a slight intrusive consonant shift when speaking after several drinks a thought would never be noticed embedded as it is in the language like sand wedged into an oyster a small irritant yet still enough with time so obviously it is not the stares and laughter of the people on the street that make me cower like a  simpering sycophant but the fear that i will expose myself to myself the mask removed as yeats went on about reveals another mask but to me without a mask it would be like staring into the face of god annihilation not because of the omniscient presence but rather the omnivorous absence that waits beneath all the fluff and blather that spews from me like the clouds of black ink from a squid in full retreat it is safer not to look to avert my glance to watch the sand dance then settle to be stirred before again returning to the shore certainly never watch the waves nor think about the moon stay at home burrow deeper instead of breaking walls cast up more i self advise mask upon mask layer upon layer bury everything beneath a multi hierarchical camouflage yet without a convergence without a center to be revealed bury the sarcophagus the king is dead long live the king


    (from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 2003)

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  • tidal

    by

    dream, life, love, poetry, relationships

    as if the sea
    could let go
    of the shore’s
    defining caress
    any more than I
    can be released
    from my blue desire
    to be with you
    adrift
    from any
    context
    to be unfastened
    from the Earth
    and absorbed
    into the vulvic
    dark between
    the stars’
    collapse
    (August 22, 2013)

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  • (cacophony perplexes)

    by

    doubt, dream, fragments, hope, life, poetry, writing



    The echos’ cacophony perplexes;
    each false note harmonizes with discord,
    a seeming pattern like rain on puddles.
    A bending of self around the shifting
    context of the time we find ourselves in.
    The barrage persists all day and all night;
    the words blast upon my psyche like hail
    pummeling.  Flowers bend into the mud.
    I walk along barren ground calling out
    names at random in hopes that someone hears:
    the wind, the storm, the silence devours.
    What words we use to justify ourselves
    are lost beneath the onslaught of the world.
    An old path blends into a mottled ground.
    Birds whip between rain and leaves, singing songs
    beneath the backbeat of the storm.  Lightning 
    scars what night is visible through the trees.
    No one is near to hear these words I speak;
    nevertheless, I say them anyway.
    The mumbled sounds mingling with falling trees
    somewhere beyond the  distant horizon;
    is anyone there?  I storm off to look
    ever hopeful that around the next bend,
    over the next hill, I will find the one
    true voice that has lured me on for years:
    a siren singing between the  echoes.
    Where we go, there we go; there we grow.

    (from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 2003)

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  • "don’t need a weatherman"

    by

    irony, poetics, poetry



    The Moon floats in clouds.
    Go outside, look at the sky.
    See more than your self.



    (August 20,2013)

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  • (startled several crows)

    by

    communication, dissatisfaction, fragments, irony, language, poetry



    When once I spoke and startled several crows,
    the birds shot up and circled through the trees.
    They bent about themselves then settled down
    more interested in the ground than me,
    or what I had to say about my world.
    Unlike St. Francis, not even the birds
    pay heed to my gibbering after light;
    to expect more than that would be absurd,
    yet to expect less, would be to accept
    the futility of speaking at all.
    With silence, the birds would remain close by;
    with speech, they circumnavigate the field;
    until ending where they began, they land:
    my cold words stir like wet wind upon sand.
    So, nobody listens; what’s that to you?
    Is it so damned important to be heard?
    But even as I speak these words, I know
    I won’t listen to the ironic cry
    even if it is uttered by myself.
    I twist in anguish like a worm pulled from
    moist earth to dangle above still water.
    Take me, please.  Anywhere, but here.  I pray.
    The only answer comes from a quick caw
    and a sudden quiver of dark black wings.
    The speaker cocks its head and stares with one
    contemplative black eye, “Who dares disturb
    my world now?”


    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001-April 2003)


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  • (events in a field of light)

    by

    fragments, interrelationships, obsessions, poetry, ways of knowing



    events in a field like light 
    from a star bending about the sun
    each affecting the other in infinite exchange
    a bee drifts with lackadaisical precision
    linking flower to flower before heading home 
    across an open meadow covered with dew
    the sun the flower the bee you me
    bending toward each other collapsing
    in a field radiant with life
    in a field radiant with life
    bending toward each other collapsing
    the sun the flower the bee you me
    it’s all so succinctly repetitious
    another day, like the orbiting moon
    its tidal force pulling on the sea
    (no thought or will to dissent
    the current catches all like a net)
    then releases to wash freely along the shore
    water light time you me flows
    quick slip twirl and fall
    slow meander to merge with all
    water through water air through air
    events in a field suffused with light
    separate yet bending toward each other
    like the sun hurling toward a point
    a somewhere beyond the center which holds
    nothing but all in a twirl we turn toward
    like a bee in a meadow covered with dew

    (from Primogenitive Folly, August 2001-April 2003)

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  • Hints, For Example

    by

    communication, meaning, metaphor, mythic, poetry

    He drops innuendo like fairy tale
    children, a bit more to allow
    for a deniability —  No, those
    were just crumbs – really
    not signs for you to follow –
    than for the realistic hope
    that she would find him here.
    (August 18, 2013)

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  • Implosion

    by

    dissatisfaction, existential angst, poetry, sonnets

    I’m drawn toward doors and stairs:
    ways away (through out up down),
    ways toward some place other than here.
    My shoulders cramp against these walls;
    the ceiling crushes down from the weight
    of the sky.  I can no longer stand here,
    but walk bent double like pack mules
    over-burdened too long upon the trail
    until their legs snap cleanly beneath them.
    Doors snap shut at my approach;
    stairs bend back upon themselves
    like ever-twisting moebius strips,
    leading me into deeper corners,
    into rooms collapsing upon themselves.
    (August 18, 2013)

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  • if dreams die

    by

    dream, life, metaphor, poetry

                apologies to L.H.
    Silently askew
    the bird lies
    at the bottom
    of the cage
    the thin wires
    distorted and bent
    as if broken
    from within
    like the snapped
    ribs around a
    failed heart’s
    transplant
    nothing left
    to do but mourn
    (August 13, 2013)

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  • (space between)

    by

    borders, community, fragments, language, obsessions, poetry, social construction



    In the air
    between trees
    below the grass
    between light and shadow
    before dawn and dusk
    between thought and word
    There
    it flows:
    not pyroclastic
    engulfing
    not truth
    with its myriad meanings
    nor our tales
    fraught with interpretations
    the observer
    the observed
    and the space between

    (August 2001-April 2003, from Primogenitive Folly)

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  • sufficient’s dissolution

    by

    communication, dissatisfaction, hope, poetry, sonnets, thinking

    the last consonant crisp echoless
    as if a rock dropped down a well
    clacked once against stone walls
    then arced into black silence
    empty you suggest and I see
    but that answer does not seem
    sufficient enough to satisfy
    so I stare down the well waiting
    there must be something there
    deep within the earth’s crust
    yet the dark silence dissolves
    any hope clinging to the night
    the words do not matter now or then
    what was heard what was said vanish
    (August 15, 2013)

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