On poetry

Tue, 19 Sep 2006 16:49:17 -0700

As for my poetry ... I feel like babbling, so prepare oneself. Ho! I call my self an extemporaneous poet. That is a lie. Actually, I do not consider myself a poet. But. But if I were to label myself and indeed label truly then I am one who writes without too much pre-thought, or post-thought, to what I write. You are free to judge for yourself my lack in skill or aptitude.

Okay, I do fiddle a little bit with a poem, but overall I take less than 15 minutes ... now some people think I am ass since I write poems without much thought; but for me that is the point.

In that, thought-out poems can lack sincerity ... they are too scripted for my own tastes. And I am not writing poetry for art ... albeit I do like lyrical composition ... but as a form of therapy. I prefer the immediacy of the emotions decoupled from critical/analytical thought. In that, whilst there are those who contend that emotions cannot be understood from an intellectual standpoint I disagree. Then again I also agree with them. But my therapist says that is okay ... as long as I show up next Monday at our regular time to talk about it.

Sometimes anger is just anger ... and the rationale for its existence in context to a situation is a moot point. BUT, emotions are not unintelligent ... they have their own form of lucidity that does understand structure and context – i.e., they can comprehend and reflect upon their environment. And I try to provide my emotions, the immediacy of my "now"ness, through my poems with a more coherent form of expression than typical psycho-physio manifestations.

But then again ... I did just write this bunch of psycho-babble.

Touching Souls

Sat, 1 Jan 2005 20:29:04 -0800

have you touched a soul
that thing writers write about
and singers sing about
wondering what philosophers philosophize about
and even politician hope to politicize about
i cannot see the gates saint peters guard
and cannot wonder what the priests mumble upon
but i have not molested that thought
anymore than they have maladjusted this naught
this thing they search for
lost in the words, so nothing conjectured
and so something done malcomplete
a seed retarded, bastarded, and then forgotten
this world with its people sought
but its nations so forever unwrought
we making hell in its place since
god, at our hand, is too easily shamed
we'd know our shadow if but our heads shined brighter

Do You Know My Name

Sat, 1 Jan 2005 20:23:22 -0800

who the hell am i
standing in a pebbled ocean
looking without to within
not knowing the incantation
to make myself real
a substitution for maturity
rolling on ages too-formed
histories faked on the lies of honesty
you'd know the password
but i doubt even if the doors open
flattened in feather-soft half-truths
pillowed, cushioned, and therefore so crushed
willfully dead inside
wondering what seed to plant
what tree to be, what leaf to let float
on the winds, falling fallen now autumn come
wintered and put away, put down so self done
do you now my name?

Devil

Wed, 21 Jan 2004 20:22:47 -0800

so why am I looking @
a crystal ball of cheap, dusty gypsy rock
that once round and cloudy

is now flat and weather-worn mirror

Nothing but myself standing to hear
my questions answered
by that silver-tongued devil. . .

Am I to look for new dreams and new goals?
When all roads lead away, some faerie walk into never-never land
where I must grow-up but cannot.

And now so illusioned -- even disillussioned -- out of their lives
to stand alone

proud?
matured?
adult?

Yeah, sure. Too late and too far from home, from family in
New York, Indiana, Germany, England, and a few more half

around the worlds

A wall of diplomas, commendations, citations, recognition,
awards, scholarships, announcements, news clips, and
a few dozen more nothings.

All behind my present, that is my now;
and in the shadow of that past I still discern even more nothing

that reflection, any colder than my own future?

any less dimensioned, cracked and worn?
to be alone -- a SINGLE man in this great modern day
weary, but wondering if anymore teary?

Till when we all, dead

dried weary, are lowered to this Earth
And drifting back to some other place
looking back at our corpse

See we are all laid to the horizon
always were on that horizon

Where are those signs on the wall?
Stay here? Move on? To where?
That place any different -- when you still stand alone?

And that silver-tongued devil is on the other side
to tell you where to go and not to go
deceitful and playing tricks all the way
to that end on some horizon.

Words

Thu, 1 Jan 2004 20:29:37 -0800

They come tumbling, rumbling like rapids from the mouth

So many, so different and still all remain the same
How the universe spins and the tree still grows while

we define and describe and decapitate the Truth
Horizontal bars made of blood and ink in mighty human desperation

To fill the voids and crevices and dark places we fear so much
To echo in the canyon of our ignorance thoughts,

dead just a moment ago
And where has my now gone?

fleeted into yester`s moment and nevermore
And shall the scholarly paper come
to deduce man`s mortal foe?

Or poet scribble in frantic prose that which
is not his woe?

The fool dances upon the god`s brow in mighty delight, ignorant
And the worm, so noble, that knows it is not a king

And the king, so humble, that knows he is no more than Our worm

Our prison is now complete as our language grows
Welded from the same tools we attempt to fly with
To soar above this Earth and world
and be apart As our Maker

But as His touch is everywhere and is everythingS
o are we bound to this life and this blood and this love
Not in shackled isolation or desolation, though

See not the yester`s shadow creeping so
long and black along our path

Nor of a mountain yet formed and a canyon yet dug from
now`s torrent rapids

For I am not the word
Even as I say it
I am