vazambam

Prostituting One's Self

2012-02-02T11:29:00.003+02:00

As I sd

to my friend, John I sd,

because he wasn’t

buying, how come

when we want

to sell

words, they always

pimp us to do

the trick.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on the MO of Underground Poets

2012-02-01T15:56:00.000+02:00

Surreptitiously

Erase each step, better

Yet, don’t move at all.

Moderator’s comment: The Apotheosis of the Absurd? At first glance, it might appear so to readers unfamiliar with Cinquor’s modus operandi and who might be thinking he’s being a bit facetious here; on the contrary, if we dig a bit deeper, we’ll see he’s earnestly but very carefully exploring new levels of meaning vis-à-vis the creative urge underlying the so-called school of Underground Poetry.

Unlike his archaeologically pioneering European antipode Heinrich Schliemann—who, in his great haste to find Ancient Troy, dug right through it without realizing it—Cinquor here posits a daring New World approach in which he proposes that poets who wish to explore ancient subterranean passages leading to Hades, and who wish to do so without the fear of being detected and therefore ratted on by weasels or moles, should do nothing but stand perfectly still—a quintessential move on Cinquor’s part, if you ask me.

The Weight

2012-01-31T13:59:00.000+02:00

Forgive me love but you were so

Light and transparent, I didn’t feel you

Flying head over heels with me

Over the deep end.

The Living Daylights

2012-01-30T11:39:00.000+02:00

My, my, all my pretty ones,

Aren’t we a picture? Oh,

Night’s a flying the coop,

The crescent’s stuck

On the vane, hallelujahs

On high for the lunatic cock

That shall egg on the chicks

That shall startle the yolk

That shall sire the albumen

Sunny-side up day after day!

Bauble

2012-01-29T19:58:00.001+02:00

A poem given, a gift

To cherish but not

To gawk over,

You stumblebum.

The Way of All Things

2012-01-28T19:11:00.003+02:00

If these clouds would just keep still

Long enough, we could go on

Trying to capture them.

Sea of Sorrow

2012-01-27T21:42:00.001+02:00

Grief never goes

So deep as

When it strikes

Rock bottom.

Dirty Old Politician

2012-01-26T11:12:00.000+02:00

A fish stinks from the head down.

—Greek proverb

That’s what they say about us but

All I know Christ is it ever cold today

And duty is duty so I’m sitting here

In the dining room marking off

The demands of my constituents and the maid

She’s shivering, bent over the kitchen sink,

Wearing a tight-fitting outfit

That I bet makes even

The blood of the fish

She’s gutting steaming hot—

Makes me feel like warming my hands up a bit—

So I get up close behind her, blow hot

On that cool nape, massage her shoulders

And rub up and down her backside

All for the good of the Motherland but

Enough’s enough my friends I kid you not

It’s time we get this fishy business over with

So she can get down to giving me all
The no-nonsense loving I lack.

Shooting the Zephyr

2012-01-25T10:45:00.000+02:00

Village folk round here have a saying

As old as Hephaestus:

When the tongues

Of fire in the hearth

Hiss as if blown

By some invisible bellows,

Someone’s talking about you—

If you ask me, that’s reason enough

We should all watch

Our tongues too.

Why I Didn't Write a Poem This Morning

2012-01-24T11:37:00.000+02:00

Caught

In a sudden light drizzle, I spent most

Of my energy musing

Under the eaves

Watching our pup, mouth

Wide open, trying

To catch

Some shining

Drops coming out

Of the downspout—surely

Here was an other
Kind of thirst.

Last Meditation in an Emergency

2012-01-23T11:33:00.000+02:00

I’ve had it with your mantras—

I bet if Frank were here,

He’d say something like

A sure-fire way to stop clutter

Cluttering your head is to stop

Wondering why

Sirens sing in your ear.

On a Line of My Wife's and Some Others Borrowed from George Oppen

2012-01-22T16:41:00.001+02:00

“Why, you’re just a boy with white hair!”

Which made me think of that other

White-haired “boy” writing

A poem about a friend visiting

The rooms of Keats and Shelley,

Who saw “they were just

Boys’ rooms” and was moved

By that.

And indeed for the poet,

A poet’s room is a boy’s room

And he supposes women know it—

Perhaps the unbeautiful banker

Is exciting to a woman, a man

Not a boy gasping

For breath over a girl’s body.

Perhaps

That is what remains breathless, beautiful

In this in which

Some people never know.

Prescription Approaching Expiry Date

2012-01-21T11:55:00.001+02:00

A poem a day keeps—

For God’s sake, don’t

Think about it before

Throwing it away.

We Gotta Get out of This Place

2012-01-20T11:59:00.000+02:00

Lovable manners, lady?

Maybe an endearing trait

In domesticated animals,

But when poets want to play

Lapdog, it’s time

To call the pound.

Fasten Your Seatbelts, Please

2012-01-19T23:19:00.001+02:00

Earthlings,

Those of you sick to death of being stuck in one place all your lives and who now wish to become followers of the Church of the Holey Galactic Bucket Seat Brigade, please take one step forward. Our craft will be departing shortly.

Aporia of a Somewhat Irreverent Lost Soul

2012-01-19T10:35:00.001+02:00

It’s still Greek to me—though

I know the good book says that

Somewhere someone above all

This is both the Alpha and the Omega, why

Is there no table of contents?

A Critique on Blake's Songs of Innocence and of Experience Written by One Old Enough to Know Better

2012-01-18T09:42:00.000+02:00

All in all, an encouraging effort in retrospect but still

One should use the imagination sparingly, William—

Too much of a good thing spoils

An unruly child.

Definitely Not Lemmings #43

2012-01-17T11:19:00.001+02:00

As the poem below illustrates, it’s currently freezing over here at The Milk and Honey House, so it’s time to give a warm welcome to Miroslav Dušanić, a Bosnian poet-in-exile living and working in Hildesheim, Germany. Miroslav writes in Serbian and German and you can visit his blog here. Thank you, Miroslav!

Polar Bare Treacle at The Milk and Honey House (Meligalas)

2012-01-17T09:09:00.000+02:00

Stark naked

At three below

With the two

Galvanized pails full

Of water out waiting

All night for the morning

Over-the-head ablutions

Now wearing ice caps—so

Mush before the sun melts us all,

You foot-dragging old dog!

Midnight Rambler

2012-01-16T10:56:00.001+02:00

Inspiration?

No need to use it

As a foil—

In the end

You’ll still be caught

In the middle, the night just

Beginning with your burning

The midnight oil.

Ventriloquist

2012-01-15T10:52:00.001+02:00

Mudslinger,

Keep throwing it long enough

And soon you’ll hear

Your voice carrying above

All the other dummies—

Do you really want to hear?

Abandoned

2012-01-14T13:32:00.000+02:00

I know my simile’s weak but still

I insist these old houses are like old people

In one aspect at least—finding themselves alone

They fall silent,

And wait and wait and wait

Till they find themselves falling,

Falling into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Bushwhacker

2012-01-13T11:40:00.000+02:00

The moon’s a round

Pale-faced lunatic lurking

Behind those silver-lined clouds—

Watch out, you star-struck fool!

One Writer's New Year's Resolution

2012-01-12T11:22:00.004+02:00

I want to get something out

that is working away at me.

—Stevie Smith

So I’m going

To keep on walking past

Midnight through this graveyard

Even if it kills me—

You?

Alms

2012-01-11T09:47:00.000+02:00

I beg to differ

With you, sir

Is it not more

A matter of your refusing

Than my asking

Forgiveness for you too?

Confessional

2012-01-10T00:04:00.000+02:00

I have to get this off my chest—

The more I put down on paper,

The less my bitter heart feels

At rest.

Do I Look Like Your Fairy Godmother?

2012-01-08T15:32:00.000+02:00

Dear Pollyanna—

From where I’m standing

Here amongst the asphodels,

I can tell you if you want

To begin with

Once upon a time

You’d better not

End it happily

Ever after.

John Berryman and Friend, Minneapolis, 1972

2012-01-07T20:04:00.000+02:00

Enough’s enough

Heraclitus, don’t you go

Tell me again

I know

This river is different.

NB: John Berryman committed suicide on January 7 (Nativity of St. John the Baptist or Forerunner).

Epiphany

2012-01-06T12:49:00.000+02:00

We closed our eyes

And then the heavens

Opened and we heard

That unmistakable sound

Of rain arriving hard on the wings

Of an insistent wind,

Our eyelids softly fluttering.

Drowning in Memories

2012-01-05T10:48:00.001+02:00

Undulating, think of an ocean—still,

No time this time even

To wave.

An Otherwise Tranquil Setting

2012-01-04T10:17:00.001+02:00

Going past

A stench,

Then seeing

A shining red

Beetle parked

Next to some white

Sheep baaing over screams

Escaping from the hog farm

Makes it all so stunning

You don’t know

Which way to go.

Today's Lesson: Building on Experience

2012-01-03T10:28:00.000+02:00

What

Can one learn

From this wall of numberless black

Stones surrounding this cemetery?

Patience.

In Credible Evidence

2012-01-02T21:43:00.001+02:00

Our politicos?

They’re unerring. Give them something

To believe in and they’ll plug it

Full of holes.

Announcing the Results of Vazambam's Poetry Giveaway Contest!

2012-01-02T11:22:00.000+02:00

Some rembetika before the big moment.

The hand in the hat……………and

Congratulations to Elisabeth Hanscombe and Tom Clark! Your copies of Sentences will shortly be in the mail. I also want to thank everybody who participated in the contest—all of you are winners even if you didn’t win this one.

(By the way, my first girlfriend's name was Jacqueline aka "Jackie".)

Insatiated

2011-12-31T11:14:00.001+02:00

Give all of yourself and you say

You’ve not given enough, give less

And you still want more.

For Better or Worse, Lads

2011-12-30T09:53:00.000+02:00

What are they after, our souls, traveling

on rotten brine-soaked timbers

from harbor to harbor?

—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema”

So when

We finally found out where

We were going, we thought

We’d better take one

Last good look back at what

We were leaving and that’s when

We shoved off for good.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Pegasus and Company

2011-12-29T12:54:00.000+02:00

If—as you say, my dear Wallace—

There was indeed a time when

Both steed and rider were noble, how come

It's only the rider who's now

A transmogrified ass?

Moderator’s comment: The reader (and/or perhaps, writer) is kindly instructed to sashay over to Cinquor's PDF Corral where our Noble Rider Huuk probably picked up his misguided, asinine idea of trying to harness the sound of words. I tell you if Stevens were alive, he’d be kicking some bad ass and picking up the insurance benefits to boot!

Paladin, The Dark Writer

2011-12-28T08:42:00.000+02:00

Even after so much travail (over 10,000 km under his saddle and still going strong), the question remains unanswered: Has he the write, will he prevail? Perhaps he will but alas, alas my dark knight, to what avail?

(Hint: Make his quest easier. Send in your answers to his giveaway poetry contest before the 31st of December 2011 deadline—without fail. Who knows? You may be getting his card ……..eh, that should be book……in the mail!)

Eros Unrequited

2011-12-27T15:34:00.000+02:00

Though your name does sound like arrows,

I daresay the conceit must end here—

As a shaft of light tearing apart

The heart of this dark sparrow.

Moot Advent of Winter

2011-12-26T10:07:00.002+02:00

Waiting to see which leaf will answer

Its calling, asking ourselves when

A chill gust settles

The question once

And for all and not

Just for you and me.

Oracle

2011-12-23T20:50:00.003+02:00

The truth, mortal?

I will tell you this much—the rest

You’ll have to make up

As you go.

Presenting Vazambam's Name Day Celebration Poetry Giveaway Contest!

2011-12-22T11:07:00.000+02:00

It’s a time of gifts and as there is no Saint Nickover here in charge of distributing them (we have our own Saint Basil who doesthis job quite nicely on January 1^st) and since yours truly is namedafter him, I’ve decided to spread some cheer in the midst of all this dire talkof impending Hellenic bankruptcy. Here’s the deal (please don’t beware ofGreeks bearing gifts)—I’m going to give away two autographed copies of my firstbook Sentences (only 300 copies were published) to the first twopeople who can answer the following question:

What was my first girlfriend’s name?

Hint (but not much of one): It’s not of Greek origin.

All entrants can enter only one name and they cannotenter more than once; if by the end of the contest (12.00 midnight December 31^st,Greek time) there are no winners (or only one), the names of the remainingparticipants will be put into a Mexican straw hat (idea courtesy of WilliamMichaelian) and on the evening of January 1^st, 2012, the soberestguest at my name day party will be asked to draw the first two (or one) names outof the hat. A photograph commemorating the occasion will be taken and duly publishedon my blog together with the names of the lucky, soon-to-be well-heeled winners,as a signed copy of Sentences is nowselling online at over $35 (just think of all the things you could buy for thatvery special person if it were 1950 and you were six years old).

Please send your guesses to vzambam3@otenet.gr togetherwith your snail mail addresses—good luck (unless you’re psychic or have a pint-sized sphinx in your pocket, you’re goingto need it)!

UPDATE: 12/23/11. Hey, guess what--I don't expect anyone to guess the right answer--all you have to do is send in any crazy name to enter. So let's send in those entries!

Haiku Wednesday

2011-12-22T10:45:00.001+02:00

My thanks to the indefatigable Don Wentworth for publishing one of my favorites, together with a fine one by Roberta Beary.

Offering

2011-12-21T11:32:00.001+02:00

At last, the long-awaited cleansing downpour,

Tomorrow, a promise of more—even now

As I write this, I can see the ancient silver-

Green trees with their branches extended.

Crow's Foot

2011-12-20T09:13:00.001+02:00

edge

of the meadow, the small

tracks

there,

a stream

beginning

to branch.

(Opening poem from Sentences, 1976)

Finally, A Clear-cut Definition

2011-12-19T15:04:00.000+02:00

Beauty?

I ain’t stumped but

Don’t tell this oldlogger

It’s in the eyes

Of the beholder—

I can’t see

No forest or no trees.

Drunk Again

2011-12-18T11:09:00.002+02:00

What can a poor lush do

When pouring out his heart

To the wine-dark sea

But hold—steady as she goes—

His foul breath in.

Stroke of Genius

2011-12-17T13:25:00.001+02:00

When the myopic philosophy prof asked her

What she thought she was doing

Wasting her time

Doodling during a pop quiz, I bet

He never thought she’d shoot back

With a bull’s eye can’t you see

I’m thinking.

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Biting the Bullet

2011-12-15T22:36:00.001+02:00

Punk firebrand intellect with prophetic

Corpus pregnant with bravado before firing

Your virgin salvo into that illustrious

But now defenseless body

Of ancestors think twice

And never after

Drawing a blank.

Moderator’s comments: Not having heard from Huuk for ages (so to speak), I thought he’d finally shot his wad. Just goes to show you shouldn’t count geezers out—not even after you think they’ve wheezed their pathetic last.

Reflections, 1969/2011

2011-12-14T10:05:00.000+02:00

When this photograph was taken

Years ago, I did not know what

The old woman was thinking—

She was sitting before the low

Wooden door of her house,

Walking stick in hand,

Eyes lowered, looking at the ground—

I still don’t know what she was thinking.

Save the Child

2011-12-13T08:55:00.000+02:00

Between Two Bitter Moments

Between two bitter moments there’s no time even to breathe
between your face and your face
the tender form of a child takes shape and disappears.

—George Seferis, from Sketches for a Summer

Ray of Glimmer at the Bottom

2011-12-12T10:25:00.001+02:00

At the first black inkling of writhing tentacles, remain

At your stations, blotting the thought out.

Back to the War

2011-12-10T12:21:00.001+02:00

When she left at dawn, no one saw

The bereaved old woman carrying a knife,

A loaf of bread and a small straw mat

On which they found her babbling

At dusk on a bare knoll

Overlooking the pockmarked,

Snow-covered landscape,

The bread still uncut.

Narcissist Not Reflecting Deeply Enough

2011-12-09T08:31:00.001+02:00

Writing poems, you should never see yourself

As a "poet" writing poems—

The poem is not a pond

Full of frogs croaking,

It is an ocean.

Elderly Immigrant

2011-12-08T10:07:00.001+02:00

I don’t remember much

About my youth

In the old country—

I was too young to bother

About memories.

Now, I tell myself,

I’ll soon know better.

Moonstruck and Pure As the Driven Snow to Boot

2011-12-07T09:21:00.001+02:00

What’s that you say poet waxing poetic

Your writing’s crystal clear?

But how clear is that now tell me oh

Too late I fear I’m drifting off

Will it help clear things up a bit

If I stick this shovel in your ear?

Right As Rain till Kingdom Come and Still No Sign of Wear and Tear

2011-12-06T11:30:00.001+02:00

Isn’t it terrible about metaphors?

Folks have been trying

To pin them down for ages

And they’re still tearing about,

Catching clichés in red weather.

Definitely Not Lemmings #41

2011-12-05T09:39:00.001+02:00

A warm December welcome to Leigh Tuplin. Leigh’s blog combines poetry with photographs—well worth taking a look at. Thank you, Leigh.

At a Loss for Words

2011-12-04T10:00:00.001+02:00

–for Eleni, again

With all my words found wanting

My love, my muse, what must I do

To find the one just right for you—

Wear it on my sleeve?

All That Glitter Is Not Gold (The Great Pretender)

2011-12-03T10:53:00.001+02:00

Poet who fancies

He has the Midas touch,

Easy on that gilded dressing—

You want your head stuffed

And spinning, grinning on

A silver platter?

Beyond the Wildest Stretch of the Imagination

2011-12-02T12:38:00.001+02:00

Imagine—once and for all—

Standing at the sea’s edge, thinking

Of the poet who said there will always be more to it

Under the surface once you reach it,

Will you be able to leave it at that?

In Lieu of "Three Red Pigeons"

2011-11-30T22:14:00.001+02:00

XXIV

Here end the works of the sea, the works of love.

Those who will some day live here where we end—

should the blood happen to blacken in their memory and overflow—

let them not forget us, the weak souls among the asphodels,

let them turn towards Erebus the heads of the victims:

We who had nothing will teach them peace.

—George Seferis, from Mythistorema(My translation)

(Music by Ilias Andriopoulos, sung by the late, great Nikos Xylouris)

Mythistorema

2011-11-29T22:11:00.001+02:00

Though no past shall ever be

Perfect, we thought we knew

Enough about it to keep us hopeful,

Unraveling its myriad rules, ever mindful

Of how we were told not

To look upon ourselves

As exceptions, lest the sovereign sun melt

Our golden rule.

That’s a Tough One: The Muse Strikes Again

2011-11-28T08:49:00.001+02:00

Where do poems come from?

I’m not sure,

But now that I think of it,

Your question reminds me

Of the time when I first asked

Mom where babies come from

And she said they just popped out

Of women’s kneecaps.

Myrtle Vinca Minor under Cross-examination

2011-11-27T13:07:00.001+02:00

Sure, you keep repeating

You’re not trans-gender,

But what’s that coy chick doing hiding

In your shrubbery

Feeding on your seeds?

Surreal Sleepwalker

2011-11-26T09:12:00.001+02:00

Rising ever so

Slowly but still mesmerized

In deep sleep, I see

The moon waxing

The blue ocean floor

At my feet.

Logorrhea

2011-11-25T10:27:00.001+02:00

You run off at the mouth
Whenever you say whatever
You say is what you have
To say and nothing’s going stop you.

Okay, logo-masochist, have it your way but
What’re you going to say when you’re sinking
In deep shit and nobody’s going to stop you?

Ornithologists' Organic Breakfast

2011-11-24T14:35:00.001+02:00

—for Ans and Peter

gingerly nibbling, small feathered

friend preening on

thin

seedy

stalk

sweet

smelling

wild

fennel—

early birds,

feast your eyes

for what we have

here is a natural,

a real honest-to-goodness

con

nois

sir.

Last of the Adobe Kings

2011-11-23T10:29:00.001+02:00

On my way, I passby

The remnants ofanother day—

His weatheredvisage

On the knoll—I see

He sees me not,

Nor does he lookaway.

Opportunity is a Window on the World

2011-11-22T14:08:00.001+02:00

The sea, the sea, who will be able to drain it dry?
—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema”

In this small house
On the bluff that is being
Inexorably eaten away
In front of the large bay windows
That let in the light,
Pray your eyes take in
As much as they can
Before running out and down
To the strand, your hands cupped
Round your ears so you can hear clearly
The world’s beckoning, inexhaustible

Song.

Egocentric

2011-11-21T10:15:00.001+02:00

On a world that turns round itself only

Once a day, what on earth are you doing

Turning round your self twenty-four hours a day?

Dead End

2011-11-19T15:17:00.001+02:00

Poem after poem after poem
Made up of one sentence—
I’m climbing up the wall.

Mnemonic: A Memento of Forgotten White House History

2011-11-18T08:53:00.001+02:00

Can’t remember that mouth piece right

On the tip of the tongue?

Forget the sax, man—

Try playing with, um,

Harmonica!

This is the Color of My Dreams

2011-11-16T14:20:00.001+02:00

(title of a painting by Miro)

I don’t paint but I know enough

About colors to dream about them

Painting my dreams.

Glutted Market

2011-11-15T17:58:00.001+02:00

The last thing we need is still

Another poem offering

All it has to give us

All we need.

Socrates the Athenian

2011-11-14T11:15:00.001+02:00

…somewhere round about here where we’re groping—

a little nearer or a little farther

—George Seferis, from “Mythistorema”

Surely

That deviant worm’s left

Further damning evidence

Of our advances, let us dig

A little deeper.

Outline of Abstract Expressionism

2011-11-14T00:27:00.001+02:00

• Freely created

• Purely American

• Concrete prison

• Full of subterfuge

• Profusely colored

• White lies

The Naked Truth

2011-11-12T09:19:00.001+02:00

Meaning I suppose you need

No patching up when

It starts

Wearing you thin.

Hold On

2011-11-11T09:51:00.001+02:00

Stop me if I’ve told you this before—

Whatever you do, don’t do it

In the spirit of one sentenced

To listen to friends pretending

He’s interested though we know

The minute they start talking,

He’s miles out the door.

On the Road

2011-11-10T10:25:00.000+02:00

On top of blighted cypress, old crow appears

To grow larger over centuries;

Small figures walking disappear

In a minute, year after year.

To a Friend, Unhappy with Herself

2011-11-09T10:46:00.000+02:00

If I were you, I’d think twice about being

Something other than you are.

Unhappy with your present lot,

You might be thinking of being

A perennial flower or even a queen bee,

Or something even more farfetched,

Whatever that may be.

But let’s get serious—

We know all that’s impossible.

So why not be yourself

And make everything possible.

A Plague on You, Shylock

2011-11-08T11:12:00.001+02:00

Wishful thinking Rosy
Rat gut package twine of course
There’s no such thing but
Metaphorically speaking if
Bill hadn’t let the cat out of the bag
Back in the Globe we could all be
Tying rings round parcels
Of fat cat operators

With no strings attached,
Sending them all packing.

Visionary

2011-11-05T14:01:00.004+02:00

What is it with you?

You want everything under the heavens

Even when nothing’s in view.

Vitriol: The Plutocrat's Payback

2011-11-04T11:06:00.001+02:00

My dearest Lady Jane,

We know it’s a shame and rotten
But really, there’s no need to explain the obvious

Farewell of your well-off infamous snotty

Obnoxious proboscis—you see, we’ve heard

Rumors of a vicious tumor and it’s plain

As that snippet of a snub gracing your face,

Making you now look so innocuous.

But still we wonder

Is this really you? If you could

Just give us a clue, pretty

Please with sugar on it—

For old times’ sake,

Before you depart

Give us your best parting shot—

No need for formalities, dearie

Dispense with the snot.

One Possible Remedy for What Ails Us

2011-11-03T10:15:00.000+02:00

Invigorating

Scent of wild spear-

Mint meant to pierce

The heart of all

That has turned

Tamed and docile

And has stopped

Making sense.

Mirror on Wall Street

2011-11-02T09:21:00.002+02:00

Go on—

Satisfy the mob

Mentality, keep good

Looking at yourself

Through a glass

Eye darkly.

Evening, towards Night

2011-11-01T15:05:00.000+02:00

In this mean neighborhood,

Under the light cast by

The streetlight opposite

The derelict house, a lone

White horse shining, a lamp

In a vacant lot.

The Ferryman on Upward Mobility

2011-10-31T09:27:00.001+02:00

No matter how hard you tried

Mate, you’re still here

Being taken down a river

At low tide—

So put up your obol and shut up,

Enjoy the rest of your ride.

Love is More Than a Series of Hackneyed Rhymes and Worn-out Clichés

2011-10-30T10:34:00.001+02:00

That is

Only if you save it,

But not for a rainy day—

Remember

There’s not a cloud

In the sky—

Promise

You won’t go away.

Morning Constitutional Amendment, Article One

2011-10-29T09:31:00.000+03:00

We the people

How little we understand

Of what we see—

(Flash of insight)—as in

How did that false dawn get past me?

Time to stop gallivanting

And look again

At what we didn’t see.

Getting Away from the Pressure Cooker

2011-10-28T09:41:00.000+03:00

Our breakfast nook

where

one

small

step

outside our kitchen

and we’re miles away,

taking our time

(fast breaking slowly)

savoring the start

of one more day.

Reading Dynamics

2011-10-27T10:19:00.001+03:00

Having run through

Ten thousand years of history,

And finding myself

Myriad pages ahead of where

I would normally have been,

I now felt strong enough

To demolish everything—

Even that immense blank wall slowly

Building up inside me.

Dressed to Kill

2011-10-26T14:19:00.000+03:00

From a distance, the well-dressed

Man approaching was an unknown—

As he came closer, I couldn’t believe he was

That shepherd in galoshes I saw

Each morning hard at work at his stable,

Up to his knees in mud and manure.

Holy shit—this man now walking

The streets looked so unbelievably

Clean-cut and innocent he looked

Just like one of us,

A sheep in wolves’ clothing.

Doppelgänger Ascendent

2011-10-26T00:04:00.001+03:00

So far, so good but

There's one thing I have to tell you

Before I leave the summit—

You’re going down with me.

Trying to Find the Right Word

2011-10-24T23:47:00.000+03:00

No—

In the bureau of the abandoned,

Stark is not the word

For these photographs,

Stark is never

Stark enough.

A Found Poem: When I Was Twenty-three

2011-10-23T09:30:00.001+03:00

—for Elisabeth, whose words I found to be wise beyond age

Back then, I felt nothing

Like what the doctor had ordered.

Strange

How perception can change

Over time, and not so bad

My younger self, I think now,

But as I say that’s not how

I thought then—ugly

I thought then, sad

To remember that

Perception now but better

Than nothing feeling nothing again.

Psst!

2011-10-22T10:20:00.002+03:00

Damn you, ham

Actor forever

Forgetting your cues

For the last time,

The world is not your oyster—

Now, spit it out

And get off the stage.

Stairway to Knowledge aka The Book of Life?

2011-10-21T09:57:00.001+03:00

So many,

Innumerable perhaps,

But one only

Steps one at a time,

And that’s not open

For discussion.

Creep on Wall Street

2011-10-20T11:08:00.000+03:00

Not an order, officer

But a crawling

Subaltern of worm not worthy enough

To crawl away from, staying

To face the rot.

Monsanto Man on Tractor, 9 AM

2011-10-19T11:03:00.000+03:00

Out walking,

Smelling something faintly

Evil in the air

And not knowing exactly where

It’s coming from,

We finally come across a man

At a crossroads somewhere

Among the myriad olive trees

And ask him where he’s been

Spraying since daybreak to find out

Just where we can proceed safely,

Only to have him shoot back with a

No problem, folks. I’ve just finished.

You can walk anywhere.