“To see in the day or in the year a symbol
Of the days of man and of his years,
To transmute the outrage of the years
Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol,
To see in death sleep, and in the sunset
A sad gold—such is poetry,
Which is immortal and poor.
Poetry returns like the dawn and the sunset.”
-from “Ars Poetica”, Borges
“Life is short, and Art long; the crisis fleeting; experience perilous, and decision difficult.” -Hippocrates
.“In the fog you are sheltered against the outside world, face to face with your inner self. Nebulat ergo cogito.” (fog therefore I think) -Umberto Eco
There’s fog.
Then, there’s people landing planes at all hours.
There’s dogs chasing birds
on runways. And one way those people in those towers
can plan to, and see to, land planes is
the guts to go with the guages.
They heartfelt dealt with data,
Trusted all they’d seen
on their farforeign &; onlyman-made monitor screen.
As dogs flushed their fog,
hands hover over lights
and cover their old bets,
their usual action.
,
, from 2009
My ache in my neck
Disables him some
His taking this strange stretch
To check out this chart, um,
On one wall, like Art,
To notice how tonight’s moon might
Look w/its own share of sunlight.
For my/
Ache in my neck/ Sorry/
I’m hostage to/
Necessity.
What were they thinking
I’m not to leave town
I’m a faceted test pattern blinking
Personas of interest renown
Only to the powers that be
.
Ok I get cagey occasionally
Ok yet I remain w/the reminder
Of stoic stands that been
Lost, inconsequential,
Cost monumental to just a man
image: “Hell’s Ditch” by me
There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with a sea horn
where a night light works with a warning
forces & forges the blackest fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
.
(from 2010)
.
.
.
.
.
.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges
I’m so sore I’m sure to call out
And I suppose surprize them
That’ll alert them to my hurt
An open wound now
I’ll flinch & grimace
& limp away as surprized as Lazereth
Aware of all this again
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.for Phillip, Rest in peace
There’s this secret I’ve kept so discreet
From lovers, & brothers, & mothers.
I’ve mis managed to become so mum
It was only clearer to me
After self therapy
The other day, or another.
.
From this encompassing dream,
I finally wanted
All the solid things I was sold to get,
When it’s important to want one.
.
I Get
Silk batik ties, Italian silk shirts,
Mostly-silk jackets,
Dry cleaned, & all in the closet.
.
I Wait For And Get
Too new Peter & P.J., Gabriel and Harvey,
Unheard of, they’re still in their jacket.
Too new Laurie Anderson, Richard Thompson,
Unheard of, they’re still in their jacket.
.
I Waited For & Get a
Big Bio book of Elliott Smith,
and the case is still closed
.
I Get
New Yorker’s
Drawings & Captions
All of them (All these years)
Data on disc
unplayed & unsmiled to. (sadly)
I Got
New Yorker’s
Drawings & Captions
The Board Game…
.
..
Why I With-hold
All that pleasure,
I haven’t a clue.
It’s half-like holding love
At arm’s length,
& watching it do
.
I fear I forget that the frail,
nearly unable, but
when from a whisper of will,…
when they muster an incalculable
measure of Reach
to straighten, and lean up
for what’s due
That’s a lot to wait for
,
The freshest thing in the clearing
by the pond’s sunk boat,
near a nest, There’s this ringing
drop, I thought, just now dotting
one leaf, left, just new
by the dew
That’s what I wait for
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
big thanx for use of the luscious image to
If there would be woods where
Where in a light clearing inside
One could hear a pen drop symphony
I’d see to it I’d go back to it
I’d go back to a lower
Low key.
.
Sure, I can, and her, end an end chapter here
Here where sugarcane flourishes
Where swamp orchid garnishes
What you see
(Or maybe maples run sweeter for her and me)
.
He’d hoped they’d elope to low profile
In fact, go back to a lower
Low profile.
Walking, mostly in clockwork close meter,
Warmer ghosts from my former features;
All the roles, All the resume’,
Falling in line, just the crew to rescue me.
Faded as sad old soldiers,
Vain fantasies say old glories.
Again, always, They had heaved it all in a chest.
Again, always, they had heaved in their chest
& took it to heart.
.
I’ll call it for you my own VFW
hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,
We’ll share lies, & libations.
I’ll wear my mightier pen.
I’ll share sham wisdom wide open.
But first, false memories in verse.
& what’s worst, I’ll con, & confide open.
.
.
.
.
“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”
—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”
.
.
.
.
“Every hero becomes a bore, at last.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances