“A Throne!”

“You, you,” he points at you,
“You can’t be in my audience,”
And collapses.

There are no stagehands here
To shuffle away his bones,
“It’s a one man show!”

He now understands his mistake,
But he’s proud of shrinking
The universe down to a man.
Who does that?
“The Artist!” he’ll inevitably cry
And laugh because it’s ludicrous.

“I took tickets too.”
And he cleaned the aisles
And he built you a throne
With cheesecloth and cardboard,
“And my soul!” Yes, yes, of course.

And there now you are
In the throne he constructed
And he’s not ready to be seen or heard
“Or exist!” No, no, of course.

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The day begins in despair.
The day begins with loss and sorrow.
No, I have that wrong. The day never ends.
It’s constant despair playing out
of a damaged reel-to-reel.

Like I Was A People

What am I doing walking around like this
Like I could cope
What made me think that
Like I wasn’t walking around big chunk missing
Nothing to fill it with but despair
And what happens when I run out
What am I doing walking around like this
Like I was a people.

Warning Dark Roads Ahead

I have embarked on a most ambitious piece. It’s going to be painful and it gonna be long. It might scare you or embarrass me. 

I might seem to become bizarre, disorganized, and riddled with mind-numbing pain. Be not concerned, I assure you I will be!

Call it Process or Method, Madness or the First Realm. “Call it shame or being abashed or trying again, for the last time, to return.” Call it Feeling.

If Cummings is to be believed, a poet’s job is to feel, and if I’m gonna feel anyway…I might as well give up and accept the mantle, amn’t l obliged?

So…Poet, it is, then.

A mad poet on a mad quest. And during that trek some bad lands and the messages you receive will seem scary and bizarre and riddled with mind-numbing pain. They will pop in and out of virtual existence, ghosts whispering in wasnever. Poems will flash before your eyes and with every blink you will question if they were even there. Scary things and gloomy things and heart-rendering stop it things will rush by will be distilled and fitted and molded and crafted into a final work which will be something worthwhile if not worth the effort.

Sometimes this is also the way poetry is done.

The Observable Universe a work in progress

“Imagine a bubble!” he shouts at the audience.

“Imagine I’m surrounded by a bubble
whisper thin and darkness beyond”
He shouts at the void

“My observable universe extends for two feet in all directions
it is populated with me of course and memories of you”

“My observable universe is fueled by love
and ceases up like everything else
in the heat death
a pristine perfect shuttle frozen in position
which, once dislodged, will weave love into the universal constants themselves
which once again will be woven from and through itself”
he shouts at the sublime fabric

bad news

For a brief instance I almost convinced myself I had reason to live. But even during that flare up I didn’t really, I wanted to. I did. I did. I dreamed. I hoped. I prayed. I am only reminded again that I don’t haven’t and won’t.