A chunk of the truth

I’m not looking for love,
I’m not looking for sex
I’m looking for a poem.
And maybe sex,
And maybe love

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What’s going on

My recent stuff is my best. One element of that is I wrote it on paper, with pen, in notebooks. Transcription is evil, made no less so by necessity.

In the meantime you guys are gonna be left with the dregs of poems I have in (try not to say cloud, or bits, or electronically. try not to say agh, in a digital, agh form)

We begin with whaat to include.rtf, a richtext file on my desktop. It was created Wednesday, November 2, 2011 2:02 AM, modified Tuesday, November 8, 2011 6:43 PM, and last opened now. It has no label.

The first line of the document is:
a short selection of current poems not stuck on paper

The first poem Driftwood is black helevetica 12 pt. Titles are bold. Some poems are 50% black—already posted. Some of the black ones are really really bad.

But not all, I am posting all the remaining black ones that I can bear. Maybe all of them. I am going to tag them black (until I can figure out if this calls for a new taxonomy, post-type, custom field, or series).

UPDATE: I just tagged the others grey so you can look at the whole set if you want. (that I’ve had the balls to post). The only exceptions is the Chinese Problem is tagged both black and grey because it should have made the first cut.

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The Chinese Problem

I wouldn’t be apprehensive about Chinese
if it weren’t all space invading octopuses.

(You should be imagining
a yellowing handmade sheet of paper,
its rough edges frame
a fishing village and its surrounding mountains.

There are 3 to 5 vertical lines of Chinese calligraphy.)

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Thanks

If someone made a pen for you
   With a copper bezel
Then it would make copper
   Halos in harsh shadows
   When you wrote in Texas sun
You could spin the pen and imagine
   exploring space as Saturn’s rings gave way to the universe
At certain angles an old album plays
   its ridges hinting of earth.

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For Sale

Stick
Found
Cut
Stained with coffee grounds
Soaked in mineral oil
A hole drilled for leather strap (optional)

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A Bit Further In

I felt lift
the lifting handle move
of a crouch car door grab.

Like I was the tactility-enhanced model
of a spatially normalized dark-explorer.

A voice perked up,
glad for not forgetting the coffee;
Its little ears vanish.

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It’s a Concert

In the deep woods,
A few fences down,
Country music plays.

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Behind Your House

In the easement (let’s say)
a bicycle wheel is rusting into a splintered utility pole,
as (just for fun) a pile of green glass encroaches
upon (why not) crumbling concrete.

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