shocked to see how bad some of my recent stuff looks, after reading a very strong poem by Till Gwinn. saw this material as still vanity-driven, trying to make you like me or something, and edited out what seemed the rotten parts. maybe made it readable. Saw that i go bad when i don’t remember that i’m writing a gift to the reader, one with no strings. especially when i forget that i’m really writing a lyric to a song, and force the music part to cover the chatty wordings.

can’t read my stuff today

talked with a good poet yesterday. totally opposite style, i can’t write like him. looking at my stuff, now — the new stuff i’ve mostly just written for this online poetry site, ‘poetry c.’ — it seems short and choppy and not at all as melodic as how i wrote them. maybe they’re ok. but, mostly i should just only write poetry when i should write poetry. the early stuff still works for me. but, it’s like the stuff i wrote for poetry c. is just prose with a limp. it looks like verse but it’s only about some comment about some comment — writing to show people how to write, how to open up out of writing a letter or a sermon. so what? if they can’t dance why want them to dance? it’d probably look as stupid as my disco minuets.

i’ve got to be myself, but i’m only myself when i’m actually writing something. after, i’m just a consumer looking for cookies. nothing to offer anyone but words of wisdom. words which i know are just paper shells to keep my hands busy.



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.



list waking up 1930

underdawg looked like
rudy didin’t want to,
they being good friends, rudy
was waiting. over the hilllock
waiting for summer.

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

joliwood asked me

if i’d seen

over cross the bay there’s a girl
who loves you… you made her stay away cause you liked
his laughter.



images (2)

after a certain black rainbow
creosotes an angel… it forever exists
as intricate to crystals:
form wish calcified…
life and dream boy and boy, boy and girl.

i don’t know what i mean, love is real?

after a certain moon rolling…
life likes motion, stars and black snakes
arc like seas… sharpening,
the heavens break,
men bleed;
virgin boys cry.
i didn’t want to cry.

flash to a village,
eager boys, women….
kids with sticks move
knight to queen’s, their game’s a high,
totem hive,
totem pole. time implodes.

after a certain nuclear fancy,
imperfections mollified:
atoms find dust, stupid man,
woman; boy to
girl, boys like me.


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.