Wake-up Call

A blind man sang this song.

*

In my mind’s eye, I saw
A man named Nobody
Drive a red-hot stake of green
Olive-wood into the single
Drunken, bloodshot eye
Of a sleeping giant,
Twisting it until it hissed,
And the giant’s eye shot out
Blood and clearly saw
No longer.

*

Aye, my wandering companions,
The mind’s eye is in deed
A wondrous place,
But not for sleeping,
Stuporous giants.

Quiddity, As in Kraken

A super-duper

Squid up from the depths
Is what the id could be

Should the tentacles
Of the ego

Let it go.

End of the Line

No more mystery here—
No more train

Down these tracks
No more

Loud and clear.

(Not quite the end after all, passengers; last line added ten hours later at 10.00 AM Friday, February 19, 2010.)

Ephemera

It's a good idea to write a poem about the first of May
in November or December, when you feel a desperate need for May.

--Vladimir Mayakovsky, from How Are Verses Made?

I fly from the present by two routes, that of the past
and that of the future.

--Lamennais, Correspondence, II, 378.

Which is to say

To
Morrow

May

Fly
Away

To
Day

Already
Yesterday.


Recently Linked: My thanks to an old, good friend and wonderful poet, Bob Arnold, for providing a link to my blog at A Longhouse Birdhouse. Always something to read here, all of it worthwhile and, if I may say so, nothing for the birds!

Dirge

Playing it

Doleful,
Sorrowful,

Full of woe,
Full of rue,

Full of row
Upon row

Of sallow faces
Facing the music,

Playing it dreadfully,
Playing it dreadfully

Cool.

Flower, Children

Senescent, almost out of sight,
Nothing’s left on the horizon but one

Thin mauve ribbon tied to the dying light.

Logic 101

faculty's
faulty

neo
syllo-

gisms
vulgar

mean
old

mind
fuck.