i am my mother’s compliments
the heat of her clapping hands
compassion on an infinite vacation
Poetry
Poetry Is Not Written In Stone
The book of Lord Schist
was on the short list
with his rock-solid verse
that shouldn' t be missed.
His writing is terse
and it comes with a twist
he gives all those who curse
a slab on the wrist.
i lay awake counting my years i have become an accountant of life segments when i walk in the forest around here i can leave the path and navigate by the sun walk on a plain in all directions this winter shall pass, and thinking of spring, i imagine being something wild, like a mother ...
Convenience Store
The woman on the cardboard is fading.
Her elven hair has caught dust. A thousand squirrels run from underneath her.
The year is almost over. On the shelves: nylon socks. Now I am present here.
My groin is stationary at this orange table.
The machines are roaring. The microwave.
Coffee. The blinds. The cold air.
Freshener gets sprayed here with some frequency.
I fell in love with my deep fake
It recited my voice hoarse,
rough
it grounded my coffee
to petty perfection.
Now that is something! Come and see! Oh! Oh!
Hierarchy of poetry recital
Poets reading:
from their Smartphone
from their Tablet
from a piece of paper
from a printed collection
from memory
Oh the wonder of subjectivity!
Parasite subdivide erudite
blundering souls with no rewards
the stillness of aging!
halflove
The rocky hills and mountains, like teeth outside of me
the hum of household machines
and me, still there, faithful to the secret
of being the present person who sat
there and felt that
The distance to writing poetry
You are on your own, you think yourself unreachable. Somewhere on the side of the light. All talk about giving yourself up into the world, as if you can be glorious that way, and you sit there, cold light in your face, half way to darkness You make the senses light, more of the world ...