prose is like a freight train, word after word delivered to your industrial brain. most of what’s emitted as poetry is a short story with funny line breaks. short stories aren’t even that good, so a compacted and trimmed short story dumm’d down for modern readers is less than good.
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planets (lyric)
let’s, let us say the moon beams,
sits and dreams of mayonnaise;
white snow moon and sleeby dreams.
o, let me fly, let me whisper off the wind,
far away, upon that rainbow, of which they’ve so much to say…
this, here is why the world goes bang in time
and many first times more.
why the sky, the sky, starts its ‘doesn’t-matter’ way;
wishing into halo, spinning either/or,
the start of you.
let’s, let’s dream, go on by, don’t stop for inconsequentials;
stop conversing seriously in plastic sentimentals;
let the present pass, it’s gone.
on the sappy smiles of pluto’s planetismal;
those midnight slopes of hyperbolic mystery,
let us dream, surf neptune’s intercontinental’s:
space dust and love in spaceboy fantasies.
you and me, we’ve talked and sang to Cygnus Minor,
breathing in each others glow. we go.
how much, how far beyond the bent horizon,
until this spinning platter starts to slow?
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do everything wrong until you’re 40, then act stupid in public, do everything you were too afraid to do when you were a kid. after 50, if you’re still smoking and boozing and drugging, you’re worthless anyway, and it doesn’t matter how much you fucked up your body before.
you tube of “quartet”
me reading “quartet”
Quartet
[red ochre]
i don’t know,
but you’re like
the clarity
of water — beaker
of translucency,
transparent to the pines
and hills of my tuscan
vision: your renaissance eyes —
da vinci
figure in red
chalk — drawn
before he broke
the glass
of water.
like water,
you bend
the elements
of my vision —
two echos
off red river
walls…
or, so reality —
as i might
know reality;
red clarity of my
image of you
this sunset evening,
far from
where you talk
with friends,
the empty glass
upon your lips.
10.19.03
[cobalt blue]
far away from you,
there is a magic
moment of you
where i am two people…
your hand on my chest,
my heart,
your heart in mine.
far away from you,
in that moment
of being you,
when i’m no
longer gray
and cold
and only me,
i kiss you
kissing me,
see your eyes —
my sparkle blue
stripped
diamond pure
in scattered velocities
of crystal black —
i miss you so…
yet, never left you,
never joined,
our being ever only
mine as mirror
of a golden sky,
minor universe,
one half
of night.
10.25.03
[burnt umber]
you draw
the line in amber gold,
i draw pale green
around
your finger…
faggot tracing
of your memory…
green for amber
burnt
in mirrors,
umber browns,
green vivid
blues and blood thin
amber,
red of summer
meadows.
i grab the earth,
hold the dirt
of grape and plankton
fossil tissue —
build a mound
of amber orange:
translucent tomb
decayed to umber
in the quiet dark.
trace your name
into the earth,
i draw the art
and love
and umber-figured
you were never
there at all.
amber sparkles, in the dirt,
my faggot soul.
10.26.03
[chrome yellow]
all the edges
of sand
in shallow water,
earth’s ripple —
movement over waves —
have turned
to water.
all is liquid
and colored
red ochre…
forest fires
blaze bright,
consuming
lesser motions;
all is fire,
casting color
on the pale
periphery of
ocean.
water of life,
water joining
boy and girl —
chrome ochre
chest and arms
claim precedence
of love and yet
is told as colored
water:
caustic yellow,
chrome identity, boy
and girl.
chrome yellow hair,
chrome wave
above the sea,
blue shadows.
10.26.03
creation of time and space as wording
think about, watch yourself, think about what you expect to end with when you start a sentence. the word is wound up, like a spring coil, and then dissipates into, extends into space, creating, as it builds in the reader’s mind, ‘time’. 
poetry as reality
we use poetry — we write stuff and say it’s poetry. this we do when we first blab out in music whatever words are laying around, whatever phrases we’ve heard the big kids say. we’re happy saying anything at all, being happy and making happy dumb sounds that sound like words. this when we’re kids… this until we find that structure in us which articulates into poetry. it’s like learning to actually lay the log over the stream instead of playing bridge.
prose-ac
prose writing depends on everybody knowing your words… beginner novelists think the dictionary is the most important book to own. mature novelists would ask, ‘which dictionary?’
poets invent words. make a verbal pointer/structure work in your poem and it’ll be added to the dictionaries. kids think they should only used words the people use, that their poem should be for everyone, but that’s because they’re sharing themselves at word-motel and it’s not really about the words at all. you’ve heard that, haven’t you? that it’s not about the words, it’s about the feelings? — and, the only real feelings in the room belong to them, the poet? and, ‘aren’t you listening to my words??’ goes along with, ‘it’s whatever you want it to mean’ and, ‘yes, being a poet, being special, means sometimes you can get away with bedroom hair’.
that wonderful pomposity of ‘being a philosopher’
philosophy is done with words: philosophy is when you ask youself why you believe something. philosophy is the negation of belief, and nothing but that. it has to be done: you have to write a phrase you believe in and then shred that phrase — you never know what you’re talking about, but it always seems to work on even you. why is that?
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