Confession Of A Disillusioned Nihilist

 

I thought 

I could live

 

My life entirely 

Honest with myself

 

Until I found it 

Surrounded by nothing 

 

That bothered me. 

 

 

 

Putting Your Hoof Where Your Mouth Is

 

I kept telling you 

Poets are poets only 

When writing and at 

No other time should they 

Pretend they are anything

But that, but time and time 

Again that never stopped you 

From running off at the mouth 

Before that inexhaustible 

Stream of meandering, 

Fumbling unconsciousness, 

Right or wrong, your raison d'état-— 

No matter where the others were at.

 

 

 

The Ultimate Artful Con

 

Just for the time 

Being, what say we 

Put behind us that ingenious 

 

Spiel which wants us 

Placed here to make life better 

Than we found it, 

 

And work instead on 

Putting more of that life in 

To the body of our work, 

 

That is to say, 

Less artistry to see 

How much better 

 

We all look. 

 

 

 

To Sleep Amidst Other Things Amiss

 

Dear diddling nocturnal day-

Dream emitting artists— 

 

Lack of a good night’s sleep 

Should never be an excuse 

 

For waking up dead 

To the world and crowing 

 

“See? I can still cock and doodle, too!" 

 

 

 

 

 

Not Bloody Up To It This Time Around

—after Archilochos, poet and mercenary 

 

[MS SHOWING CONSIDERABLE WEAR AND TEAR] 

 

[ ] 

[ ]

by the way [far?] 

[ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] flung side

[ ] [ ]

ditched [ ] [ ] rusty 

[ ] 

[ ]  

[ ]

shield going [where to?] pieces still 

 

[MS QUALITY RAPIDLY FADING] 

 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] wait [for?] better war[ri?][or] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] 

[ ] poet? 

 

[MS WHOLLY IN SHAMBLES] 

 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] 

[ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]

Oxymoronic

--after Heraclitus, again 

 

Nothing remains 

Unchanged, no matter how 

 

Many times 

You have heard it 

 

Uttered by the well-

Meaning masses,

 

By this babbling

Brook, it bears

 

Repeating just the same. 

 

 

 

 

Not So Forward Looking Thinking Man's Poet

 

Here’s to him 

Who always thought 

He was a giant 

 

Step ahead of those backward 

Looking others who remained 

Glued to his miniscule 

 

Frame frozen in their rear- 

View mirrors yet wondering 

Naught one bit how 

 

Everything fits, even all

Our miserable misfits. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Payoff

 

What is worth 

Noting down 

May or may not be 

 

Worth the price to pay for winning 

Poems, though you’ll never know 

The odds if you don’t 

 

Place your bets. 

 

 

Life Coordinates

 

Where you find yourself 

Now, the only thing

 

That can bother you is already 

Out of reach behind you— 

 

Just don’t turn around,

Or you’ll lose it. 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku: Acme Nest Building, Inc.

 

Mourning dove dips in 

To garden to pick up twig— 

 

Wings back armed to teeth. 

 

 

 

 

 

Nipped In The Bud: Almost Divine Retribution

 

That bitch of a muse doesn’t give a shit 

If you don’t know where you’re going 

With the poem you’re working on; 

 

She just wants to know where 

That shitty poem came from, so 

She can strike you dumb to the core 

 

Before you make an ass 

Of yourself again. 

 

 

 

 

In Memoriam

 

Patchwork footprints 

 

Belonging to those 

Out of the way 

 

Spirits who breathed 

In small pied patches 

 

Of an everyday world 

In tatters 

 

And left swirling, 

Swaths of uniform black 

 

Holes scattering the slightest 

Distance behind them, 

 

Mere light years away. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stillborn Breakfast At The Milk And Honey House

 

And they will come punctually, 

Those dumb, flimsy fly-by-night 

Nest-building mourning doves, 

 

Yet still smartly refreshing 

As the first spring showers, 

And will start melodically 

 

Cooing into our groggy ears 

From the rafters outside 

Our bedroom balcony, nesting 

 

Their fragile eggs and keeping 

A futile eye out for the first signs 

Of any crowing poachers already 

 

On standby, strung out 

On nearby telephone lines, waiting 

To punch the clock and smash 

 

The tender shells of those 

Never-to-be fledgling pilots before 

They are able to sense whatever 

 

Just hit them. 

 

 

 

Tsundoku For The Quasi Insensitive

Whenever you feel 

Your heart doesn’t 

Look at all 

 

Like an open book, 

Take one up by chance, 

Then take another 

 

Closer look.