why a poem works for me

here’s the crux:

as a poet i invent the concept AS the text is formed… formed into a poem object.

1. the text is the look of the clay AFTER it is shaped. the writing, the shaping, is the monologue of the poet’s LOGO into the world.

2. the need to make order. the need to make order out of a frightening chaos. the concept, the object we call a concept, is a picture of order, a ‘solution’. the concept-act is inventing a ‘solution’. a solution is an invention which orders doubt. The concept is an invention of a solution and is the solution itself. This is the reality of authors. We create our experience of chaos, like anyone — everyone’s fear or love is of their own reaction and capability to respond in reaction.

we, authors, place into the world objects — things which stay as wordings — as solutions to our doubt and fears. even when we pretend to be objective — and, isn’t irony just pushing our fear into the closet — out of sight? And isn’t ‘rationalism’ just fear reduced to, turned into, the banal…? rationalism is whatever confuses you deconstructed into its static and active threats… held to the light… for manipulation of the psyche into certainty. ( rationally, you can’t know what you don’t know. )

3. the poem is a construction for a task. the task is to re-associate the self with the body. to reconcile with external necessities, for survival. a poet’s task is different from a consumer’s task in that we invent our own visions and produce a world where our visions are real. Poets hope, but always know, that in the end a poem is a suicide note — a final thing said. Poets know that a poem must be that true to be a real poem. The task is to live with the word both as it is and how we wish it to be.

this conflict of hope and fear tears the poem in two. A MAGIC poem is when the two impulses of hope and fear are fused into a new emotion — one invented in and for the moment. A romantic fusion of death and life, fear and survival. love and hope, pain and loss.

4. the hope to make thought ‘clear’. so, the question now is ‘what is thought made of? and, is my poem a picture of my thought or the invention of a thought… ?

Couple having serious interaction

Mandatory Credit: Photo by Courtesy Everett Collection/REX (948135a) Couple having serious interaction Couple having serious interaction

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.