chat: my poet brain is dead


not thinking in music these days. just prose thoughts about how to describe consciousness. but, i really don’t like the word-blug of saying, ‘but, your thoughts are ‘poetic’, and saying that just because i’m thinking of some imaginary thing. i can imagine anything. that’s part of my ‘poet’, but what i can’t imagine is cold reality, because it’s not plastic — needs actual physical manipulation to change. that’s why i like writing and thinking in ‘philosophy’. it’s worthless as a topic but it’s so comforting to write it out —  to find the words to express what i’d like to think is the case. just like this post itself. it really doesn’t do anything except reorder the wording of how i’m going to explain or understand something. it’s not poetry — it  doesn’t give anything back to nature.

gravity happy

two men with hats sitting quiet

a bucket. an old zinc coated bucket, but it’s new and held by its handle by this old man, your neighbor. he’s wearing an old herring bone overcoat that was once deep brown. he’s got his hat, a slouch hat brimmed felt, gray. he’s walking slow, like to the clanging of this other bucket’s handle, creaking as he walks. there’s a wind, but it’s not a cold wind, just an empty thing reminding of the cold. it’s spot welded to the bottom of the one bucket, or likewise, but attached. these are the old kind of buckets which slope down from wide at the top to narrow. i don’t know why, or at least didn’t till i figured it out. they’re like two flower bells attached like intimate friends outside of laws and rivers. i mean that the two flowers become a single animal, other kinds of kin you’d not meet at home. a cloudwater flowing above the regular flow, like a floating rope cloud uncoiling just above the Snake. it’s between the two bottoms, that’s the secret: anything real’s in the dark.



list waking up 1930

underdawg looked like
rudy didin’t want to,
they being good friends, rudy
was waiting. over the hilllock
ther’s a stream,
going through rock and
waiting for summer.

why are you waiting, little
man, for his hand to
guide you? you never
asked for the times gone by,
but, you wonder why he
hesitates, it’s not his fate you
leave or die.

joliwood asked me if i’d seen
you… now that you’re not
market street trash,
they talk about the times
you made them laugh,
and, here you are. over
cross the bay ther’s a girl
who loves you. made her
stay away cause you liked
his laughter.

another time of day
you will wish forgiveness
on your tattered laugh and
goodyear sigh.


images (2)

after a certain black rainbow
cresotes an angel… it forever exists
in mountains, arc and edge, it is intricate to crystals:
form and wish calcified…
life and dream and boy and girl.

i mean, love is real.

after a certain moon… which means
life likes motion, stars and black snakes
arc like seas…
the heavens break,
fat men bleed;
the virgin dies;
memory erects.

flash to a village built of ashes. passionate men,
eager boys, presumptuous women….
children with sticks move
knight to queen’s rook four. totem hive,
totem pole. i mean, time implodes and what i
see is now and now.

after a certain exploding nuclear,
all the imperfections hated by man are
mollified: atoms to atom, stupid man to
woman; boy to

sounding like mature



sometimes the dark is
no blood, no poem to
fake your
brain. no burr.

you ask me why,
and i prevaricate… not
really listening. like an
english hobby poet writing
angry, or,
a french boy smoking, or,
the eel,
shy that it’s food.

i wonder that the
young girl cares,
the young boy looks.
anytime the phone’,
i answer like an old man,
frail wind.

hidden history of broken


under is never,
torture is hidden. my
mind’s a forgiveness;
my heart won’t repent.

he loved you in silence,
yet told you his heart; it
was empty, a summer park
in baltimore.
i’ve never been there.

a summer lawn in
some bourgeois money place…
a big shadow in
a dark night, it radiates, and i’m
peeking in at
the happy family,
it’s always xmas, father and son.

i dream of a summer place,
of scented trees and babies…
happy dreams!
a mossy pond,
a cemetar of ancient friends,
and, there we’ll talk…
the silence off some lazy
pines hiding our vanities, and
you will tell me how you
are not me.

i play a melody,
rachmaninov to your
vaste sympathy:
the clean smooth water that’s
my only his touch;
the icy cold of your
careful loathing.