Come only to me, voice of poetry! Leave others to their inexhaustible assimilation into the mundane. Only I will accept you here with hope and sacredness. I will have you here with me even in a poorly lit room. I want electricity to shoot forth from my fingertips- and I want my light to shine brighter then that Northern star, and to better know the way for all lost travelers. I have traveled there before- underneath the yellow lamps, with the sliver of a silvery moon. I have seen the crooked post on which you hang a hat. I will have all lovers and dreamers in my thoughts- and though we are spread so far apart- I have seen you buried beneath every lie, and within every true line – even surrounded by the material of the metropolitans. I have an inexhaustible heart. I will have you when I am high neon or drowned in moody blue. I am a cosmonaut cosmopolitan- an alien furthest from the furthest world- even existing in the sultry deluge of the bastardly barroom.
The poet is concomitant to the lonely heart, the herald of youth, master to his exuberant flock- if he can find a way into your heart- so much the more to acquaint itself with your ghost. To liberate the stars from the cold black cosmos. We are not the charge over particles or particulars. We are not manipulators of fate. I am an exceptional one, a rare one, an inspired one- let my fate come to me when it will- I will recognize you, and I will recognize it. An observer of the flashes of ecstasy, and rare moments of exchange between us. I have inserted myself among you, for the better half of ourselves. It is all in jest. My jest at your expense. Sleep children without fear. Take rest. Fear is a brain witch- an elixir- a bacteria- a virus. She mixes herself into even the most worthy spirits. We poets are the suture for vulnerable flesh and the gust beneath the wings of your buried birds- each thread a stitch for a gushing wound. What pumps so full? Lament not your failings and shortcomings, my heart.
Now to open up for the conversation. A poet must in any event remain open, and to defiantly maintain his openness forever. The poet, or more naturally to put it- that exceptional and original mind and spirit- that voice of an individual rebellion- is nothing so extraordinary or heroic. I saw no alignment of the stars above my cradle- though I am a very spiritual man- I am not one for superstition or heroics. God and country!
Every claim of inheritance or tradition is flawed by the mass consumption and much honoring of it. Rather, a poet is a man who lives selfishly against all hardship and strain, unafraid of the consequences, and willing to commit to the true chaos and disorder of creation- searching for an ideal of human truth and love- forgiving, but torturing, his insufficiency to this end- having to live with the minor consolation that it is far better to expose himself to his imagination, than to hide behind boredom or cuteness- to seek understanding between and for the entire mess of humanity- (and it is a mess- of the mirror humiliation of his own reflection, or the mirror of inflection)- rather than to put up walls and gates with guards of temperament or harsh responses to hide and hold back the river from the mad torrent. Downpour! Downpour! Give us a great storm! People and the hunger that flow in body parts down the wave of sewer slime and old lady bile- again the handkerchief. Hold it while I choke! It is about acceptance, which is the final stage of grief. No raincoat in a storm could soak you to your bones. Yet, how could we see you unless you could bare the brunt of the wind and the tumult.
In measure, it is the madness or defiance to remain naked forever in a window above the lonely rim, when the rest of the community social-paths are either owned, and opposed in some fashion, (to that fanciful unrealistic existence of his- the psychopath.)
Expose yourself and your humanity to the savagery of the world. Drink your fill of your own blood as they use their fists and feet to pound your rib cage- and it splits- and the red rubies drip. The duty bound have many boundaries- when they fence you in- reading regulations from clip boards as if they existed for millennium. They are a riot, if you see them in the light- or strip them of all their friends. Without all these awards, and devices- the plaque above the gallery wall- a plague of ailing villagers caught somewhere between currency and interdependency. I’m sure there is something more to achievement than this. My soul would serve as a broken window during a riot.
There is nothing more worthy of derision for a man in chains, then another man standing unfettered in the rain. Just as the great idealist always seems ridiculous to the realist. No pragmatic man ever reached up to light a star with his own torch!
Such slurs and curses you say? They are contrived, you say? No man is free, and all are in chains. All men are free, but born into chains- and our life is for the breaking of each shackle. How long must you wait for the illusion to disband into clarity? Forever and a day. My allusions are made not for the celebration of my intellect, but for the love of my companions. Grow strong you prepubescent boys! There will be no relief for you, and you shall have to taste your breath till it goes further into heaven then your ass could follow it- and the crickets will chirp in the night by the toll booth, as you are always enslaved to a crowd’s applause. Your voice spasms upward to descend down again. Gravity is a son of a bitch. I have had many long nights with nothing but my cigarettes, and my lonely celebrations- my own masked tribal savages dancing about my funeral pyre. I have contrived everything- and it may seem barbaric in its simple guise- but it is elemental, like liquid hot metal. My savage takes no action. Remember art is useless!
Words are constraints put upon the communication of the feeling man- and so he pushes out toward the furthest that can be allotted by their flawed use. Could you get the emotion of the thing? His mouth and face under the plastic surface in a death mask of his screaming rage as it stretches and bends.
What of the stupid laymen? For all of the slurs and curses I place as gifts before the throng of these drones- I am not one who resents them outwardly. I too despise my own nobility. I accept all, and do not believe in bringing hardship on the innocent. And the most innocent are the ignorant. I wouldn’t expect of him what I cannot attain. I live on all terms as a brother to fools- and I have been many times a fool. A poet must suffer as the poets before him have suffered- there is much learning in desperation, and attraction to danger for a soul of strength. Don’t expect them to understand your red eyed beckoning- your emotional beacon. Why not face off with him, or pull your false face off before your death?- even to look into the face of death and grin- the devil’s Irish smile. When Irish eyes are smiling.
Small men are innocent- it is their ignorance which makes them unaware of their disaster and their farce- it is their small mindedness which makes them small. I have seen many a small man appearing very large, and I have seen many a large man appearing very small. Here’s to appearances! The trivial will not let themselves see their evil in the light of day- and will not play with matches. I am larger than the Ark, and contain more animals. I have my rubber boots prepared- black and oily. I went stepping over you and thus they became dirty with the effort!
I destroy myself everyday in even the smallest of ways. ( I cannot allow myself even one misguidance or false speech.) My lost planks become garbage on your beach. What is that which they say of another man’s trash? I must have my rapture in the end! I heal over the judgment, but never forget the grief and humility it breathes within. I am incapable of certainty at any point, but I am certain of my independence of shame. I forgive myself very slowly for the most minor offenses, and he who harms me, even the most ignorant of brutes does so justly and I forgive him quickly. I have a long memory, and deserve my contrition. All should be so elevated to be so guilty before a brute.
May I ask the brutes? Why are the social-paths community people so greedy to get their own and forget their own- forgetting any regard for the inner-nourishment- or even the men of the underground- who weep and gnash their teeth- crowded on the lonely city street? Why is everyone so easy in dismissing you, when you come with your uncommon likeness and have seismic needles sticking from out your spine- betrayin
g your true activities- the cadence of your pit, and the tempestuous mind. Your authority is over nothing but what you will do. What will you do? Do not look for others to see, but do not fear that others should see you.
Many would oppose the poet in his heart and tears, calling them a kind of sordid pretension for attention. How many times they have brought the power of their pride and an army behind them- hate and negativity for everyone who doesn’t lay flat and worship the hole into which they are forced to succumb. But, am I not trying out a new kind of warfare? The silent less evil that teases out a tantrum from tyrants- who must know their insignificance- they are easy targets. It’s like if Mozart sat down at the Pope’s piano. Who is this man of God? Pope, bring forth your compositions!
Soothing it is for a jackass to offer up his hooves and his salute of flags and forefathers- it benefits the psyche to reinforce a claim. His prowess at nothing, leaves nothing unaccomplished- all ends and hands are tied to the remains. The gears have smashed into fragments on the pavement- disappearing under the coffee table and back into darkness. Pretension is not true of me, and ‘tears’ is a metaphorical word. I do not weep in my chair. I weep out into the open air- for whoever is there- and they will despise it fully. I cannot write without an image or a sound- and my favorite sound is the rain at night- and my least favorite is mother’s grief. Does grief make a sound? Ah, but you understand the motif, and its worthlessness.
Maybe a poet is foolish, but to become a poet one can be nothing less then connected to the mad dash mob of them. No man is an island entire of itself- never send to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Thereby, I can only testify through my representations, even creating myself in my own representation- here’s to repetition! I can only pass out my key- and will not worry for a professor’s lecture- the accuracy of my racing thoughts- I will leave up to conjecture. Remember, I would not have my face buried in the mud. Or whatever face of me I try to explain. The archeologist went so deep into the earth, he forgot about the endlessness of the sky- and he fell on his head out the other side. Are we among those with the slanted eyes?
Fundamentally, I have been born, or naturally re-born again and yet again, to explore the situations of my experience in fullness. My life struggle, or at least those first few experiences by which I found something worth sharing, some pain or knowledge, or something communicable, undefined or ill-defined- it is needless to say abridged. I am hoping to build a bridge to you with this utterance, in this way, by my very way. I am hoping to share the secret of my breath. There is ever much here in these twenty or so years, and no words were made to express- I can only work in the forms that appeal to me. There is ever much repetition in the bric-a-brac.
There I’ve gone and written too much again. My metaphors were thick just now. I apologize for becoming so carried away with flights and visions. It is my gift to debate the question- turning over the pebbles on the beach. My name as it happens, is not vital. Only my images, my poems, my thoughts, my visions, my flashing rocket ships of raging love, are vital to me- as if this object were the finest cutlery, and still sharp in the drawer. A fine razor to my throat- just before the skin splits in an overflow of red raspberries. Connect me to the river and flood of the heath and heather mind.
These are drawn from my vulnerability to the earth- the crazy and beautiful rain, the wild and free wind, the crumbling rocks and structures, the piper’s tune with his dancing dolls pulled away by strings.
Why do I dwell upon these things, or within them? My heart content to spill forth its contents- beating like a deep drawling drum. Why was I born to seek grace and not more important things, like status, and place? To remain with the cadavers of men, with the silent suffering by the candle light. They share no wail, bring upon them no thunder roaring tumult, under the oppression of the rattling hail- and they shake no ground. Lost voices through the fog. Where did I find my extremities, and my formed up heap of jagged edges with pink underlying bellies? My peculiarity? My eccentricity? Please forgive another comparison of my wild to your abundance. I have my abundance, truly, verily, and it is always ripening, but it is injured with a look. I am far too soft to sit on a throne high enough to cast down stones upon my fellow men- draw your lot, and reconcile yourselves to fate.
Marisa’s Poems
These poems I wrote during a period after meeting a woman named Marisa in my political science class at college. I sat with her at coffee and over dinner, and we shared some deep and altering conversations on various subjects. I described somewhat of what occurred in the Preface to this volume. To make a story short, I had met her and fallen for her and wanted to make her my girlfriend, but she would never have it. I was obsessed with her, and she became the first muse for my poetry. I languished in misery with thoughts of her for years afterward and she became an idol or goddess of perfection for me. She was an artist, and became my example of what a human being could aspire to be. She was seductive and selfish, and was a free spirit. Thinking about her way and her nature caused me to question everything I had become, and changed me forever afterward. This first piece was also written in 2006.
Marisa’s Poem
I. Beaten Brown Shoes
There is a man on the street and he’s broken.
A million little shards shattered upon the pavement-
like a shot glass;
in his hands and feet are weary feelings.
You can see the burden of that fearful- dread filled
existence reflected in the strip mall windows as he passes them by.
There in the panes, refracted by the glistening light,
distorted by the many for sale signs with BIG FAT LETTERING,
the matter of a man- little more.
A thin little man with beaten brown shoes,
frayed fringes on his pant legs-
the coke bottles cover the green grass.
Cold, grave and compassionless-
the expressions of a face bound up by distrust.
Smoking a cigarette-
running a hand over greasy black hair at intervals,
a distance behind his eyes-
a frustration emanating from within.
He wears dark blue slacks and a flannel shirt.
Bent over toward the earth at the shoulders,
you can see he’s hauling around the oppressive weight of the world.
His visions disturbed by a morbid melancholy,
his dreams obscured even to himself and without meaning.
Show me substance in a handful of images/
riches in a pocketful of marbles/
diamonds in the rough/ clarity in parables.
Show me a place where it is something,
where it speaks and has something to say,
where laughter is not in jest, but in outbursts of joy-
and where there are no martyrs, where they have no cause,
and no judicators, where they have no laws.
Give me the truth that the birds carry with them upon the wind-
give me wings-
give me the kind solace of only the stillest hours.
He sees an advert in the store window.
“SPACE FOR RENT.”
Maybe he’ll escape one day,
Fly to the isle of the exiled-
where everyone has everything to be ashamed of.
You can’t be “in” there, only left out
…leave on a Wednesday.
Here it is different.
Here on the street the people are all convinced,
and the pretty girls hold their cellular phones to their ears,
making friends and influencing everyone;
while he wears these tattered rags, and never speaks,
drowned out by everyone’s noise.
It’s harder to stand in these shoes, if you’d dare to stand alone;
and envy is the name of a dog kicked
too often,
and the lone stray wolf without a pack,
howls not for pride, but for pity.
Sometimes they pass him by without looking up,
and sometimes they quickly turn away,
afraid to look into his eyes.
He lifts his gaze from the pavement, sometimes-
peering up at the strangers, more colorful than he.
His skin is pale white-
Their skin is pink-
with a rose colored hue.
II. Room and Board
Hours wasted longing for long hours wasted.
The clothes thrown about on the floor,
the sheets tossed about on the bed,
the stale crust on an unwashed plate-
all restlessness and depression.
Paper cups, paper napkins, paper cranes, paper planes,
paper hats, paper hearts-
paper and plastic.
The countertop overtaken by the vulgarity of roaches.
The sound of an alarm clock ringing-
the small, cluttered, and filthy room.
A knock at the door which startles the slumberer.
A bed, dresser, and desk, all in a desperate condition-
falling apart.
The tick…tick…tick…tick…tock of the clock.
The bothered whir of the ceiling fan spinning,
sweat drips on furrowed brows.
A rich cacophony of muddled dreams,
and ruined aspirations.
No inspiration.
Breakfast is a paper cigarette.
“Don’t think”… “Don’t think”… “Don’t think”- he is thinking…
Man loves his suffering too much.
And perhaps his name too little
Man’s perception is his reality.
And reality is…
A torn bedspread with the stuffing poking out,
and the couch cushions stained, patched, and worn.
The contemptible light from the cracked door creaking,
across the wall illuminating,
Selected Poems (2006 - 2012) Page 3
