ALL RESPONSES |
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I will not speak these words
nor write the sentence
for impulse does not move these hands
to write what others would call poetry.
Perhaps I need a stimulus, a clever prompt
or currency, paid in advance.
I bled this neighborhood of all meaning.
It ages, as do I, yet it remains the same,
older and unchanged.
I will not write this poem,
because one can never be certain
of literal definition. Maybe
it was previously published by a poet,
shelving my brainstorm as already made,
the book everyone already knows.
No, it's better to leave obvious thoughts
to oneself, rather than risk reprisal
from those I once denied.
One would question whether my words
are true, and I would rather die
than make one mistake for all to see.
And my epitaph shall read:
He had no courage, and was afraid
of the fallacy of his words,
yet he never erred.
I will not write this poem.
It will remain where it belongs,
a treasure only I possess, hidden
behind mortared cinder blocks
and carried safely into darkness.
But wait, I am confused.
What are the rules?
Are they set by me, by you,
or by unwritten contract between us all?
Let's take a vote, for
Words that look good
Words that sound good
Words that feel so good
by unanimous declaration, must be good
and should exist as written.
So many words, that need not have been written, were.
So many, that should have been, weren't. |
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For the artwork And then…it just occurred!!
The pigmentation deficiency of Pittsburgh proper is due in fact
to the red eye flights uninterrupted by corporate bankruptcies,
contaminated water, and latex gloves
that’s right latex gloves, preferably aqua
which, by the way, were not the inspiration
that steeped Andy’s soup
or scoured his walls
with what is known as art.
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(after the painting of the same name)
Last night we slept at the Starry Night Hotel.
We staggered from the Starry Night Bar at 3.
Vincent was at the desk — he gave us the key
and I loved you starry, and I loved you well.
Tonight I'll read this poem from a book:
'O starry night! O Venus in the west
Thy loving hands guide us: we are undressed;
Charm us to slumber with thy loving look!'
And you'll sit in your necklace and your dress
beside that painting Vincent hung, and say
'This place is such a dump! There's cockroaches
in the bathtub, and Vincent needs to fix
The vibrator again. I wonder why
he always puts us in room 36? |
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For the work 1 + one = WON!!
i want to lie in a silent room,
feel the buck of your heart
i need your hands to help
me sleep, fireflies outside
blinking hourly for favors
i wish for a wish to make me
younger than morning doves
thinking of a cork easing through
the wet neck of chilled chablis,
wine delicious on your pink throat
and just as a sundial sees angles
of shadows and time, midnight
knows the coming summer
and marks it in passing minutes |
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Morning Blue (after the painting of the same name)
if i were in the business
of assigning colors
i would give blue
to early hours each leaf lifted
underside twisted
to light’s promise
one could lose oneself in blue
wade knee deep
in its limited light
shiver in its cool
if i were in the business
i would remember blue
add it to my collection
enjoy it at my leisure
then move on my eye roving
to yellow
unescapable
accommodating
warm to the touch
i would assign yellow to sunrise
if i were in the business
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(this piece is in response to And Then...it just occurred!)
I stuck my
wristwatch
under the faucet
to see if I could
melt it
like the clocks
in Salvador Dali’s
persistent painting.
The watch
remained
unscathed,
most of the tissue and skin
simply slid off my hand,
bones caught
in the drain sieve.
Try again.
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Response to All-1
1
From the school playground
blasted by brightness
into the shadowed atrium
we walked, then further in,
up the aisle and back down
stopping at the statues to pray,
going on the way we thought
Jesus went, fourteen named
stops, going on that way we
learned early to look at suffering,
the bereft mother, lover, friend
met and left, how Jesus fell
three times beneath the weight
of it then kept going on
the way plainchant goes on
emptying and filling.
2
Making the stations, the nun’s
called it but all those statues
camouflaged the emptiness.
An archeology
a bisection
a compendium of our lives
Making the place where we stand
and being there I call it.
I believe in the stations
the warp
the wreck
beneath them
but do they have to mean suffering?
Can’t they be like “winter counts,”
a calendar keeping what marks us?
a ritual
a requirement
all we know of truth.
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My
letters
go
unanswered.
Time
to
buy
a
new
pen. |
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In response to 1 + one = ONE!!
Linked, yet never touched --
an affair of words
letters like shells
strewn by waves on a beach
writing our names in sand
erased by tides
grains of memory dispersed in current
with all the others
and the rest, carried by wind
as if it never were
absorbed into earth
its soil fertile for painful planting
You are haze on a distant horizon
disturbed by storm
silt, dust, light
pieces of ideas that blend
to form a truth.
..............................
The wind is one, and also many.
Trees twist in his grasp
'til finally spent, but then again rising.
It is good to change direction, or else
pointed towards one purpose,
like a telephone pole, sterile
and unyielding, find
comfort in monotony.
Limbs branch in struggle, to occupy
the air, naked lungs that
reach for a common heart,
boiling, yet contained.
They cannot hear the noise,
trains and traffic, humming motors
of comfort.
............................
Do trees have ears?
Do birds sing sonnets
to them?
What does blue think of gray,
or do clouds see in their laked reflections?
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Inspired by Soul Stripping
Aint no prude, dude
Ask anyone who knows me
But I ask you
Why would a man pay money
to be aroused by naked women
while he is surrounded by other men
paying to be aroused by the same naked women
Never understood that
Never paid to enter one of those places
Nor shed a bill
But I been there too many times
Played music under the same roof
Plenty of rock bars around this country with "dancers"
Let me tell you
Most have children
or other hungry entities to feed
Seen the distant glaze on the patrons' eyes
Begging the back of their conscience to ignore
Reality of Surrender
Surrender to Illusion
Illusion of a relationship
Money is the power
Its exchange the screw
Hyenas chewing skin and bones
Some wear Cowardly Lion Costumes
Others, Kingly Gilt Drapes
All devouring empty wishes
ancient ritual
every patron a participant
Into the arena
My friends, roommates, confidantes
I saw them all go
To sell to the losers
Who pay money for their own defeat
But we all gotta pay the bills
Empowerment?
For every sharp law student willingly funding tuition
A thousand desperate victims
Witnessing results on them all
Repels me
But not as much as Pride
in Male Energy
in Female Energy
in Humanity
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[written for the featured stimulus, Writer's Block (I should call Hopper)]
I'm thinking. Well, considering.
Pondering might be the right word.
Letting ideas unborn gestate in
the still waters of my sub-conscious
swamp. I'm pretty sure they're there.
Pretty sure they were conceived, anyway.
Cute critters, too, with me their poppa and all.
Big thoughts, world-shaking when they
emerge. You will seriously flip out.
It may appear as though I'm simply staring
at the passing traffic, waiting for
that short skirt to go back the
other way. Weighing the pros and cons
of another cup of coffee, or a
quick round of Grand Theft Auto. But
no. I'm not doing nothing. Prodding
the subconscious to yield its secrets
is serious business, zen-like, fed
by secret springs of a rested soul.
So lay off. I mean,
c'mon, ma, my resume is done. It'll be
in the mail tomorrow, next day at
the latest, and if I want
that job it's mine. Right now I'm busy.
It is not nothing. Waiting is work too.
You'll see how it's
worth it when the world is a different
place because of me. |
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I'm compelled
and humbled
what my paint brush has done
your observations cleverly written
my reply?
he was 36 when he painted it
always wanted to see Andy work for a change
dali is coming round' the corner
behind will be Christina
this muse- always frustrating
the intent is there
but the drive...
too many interruptions
the soul strips away bit by bit
thank God- the son... ALL-1... ALIVE
I thank ye ole' poets
you've given the mad man a good push
the mind
the muse
the old friend has returned
apply the orange here
throw the black there
dammit! where's that blue
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Inspired by First Reading
Poet, prepare thyself for judgement!
Lest one cliche stumbles over another
(each one awful, even in its youth),
your carefully crafted composition
brings astonishment to the audience,
who wonder why your words were ever written,
and their snickers prick your ears like thorns.
Your nervous stammering delights masters,
who, tired of pretentious pentameter,
appreciate such sincere comedy.
Later, as the first martini kicks in,
you realize that their published grins
were not directed towards the lectern,
but were expressions of thanksgiving
for being one to listen, not to speak. |
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...in response to Morning blue.
The birches
of my home
the bluish pale
grow
in lonesome clumps
and let their green
downsweeping arms
sprinkle quiet blessings
over the sprouting grass.
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The veil that covered the salt
on our sun soaked skins, on our bare naked backs
hid the past behind us. When I was much younger
and you, a soft voice in the corner of my street,
insisted in believing, despite the puddles,
despite the distance that kept inserting itself
between your hands and mine.
Even back then, the texture of your faith,
the constant optimism of your careless passion, ignored
the unpredictability of destiny. There was
never anything under us, no secrets to deny,
no walls to break. That one, single shadow reflected two;
but time required more attention of us than we imagined to give.
Time, the maker of all things…
It wasn’t so long ago when the touch of your lips
melted the glaciers, when the deep blue tint of your eyes
paved the road of the shining stars.
Now, I am forced to see you,
tripping on your own fugitive words, tangled
around those same sheets that were, then, so obviously unnecessary.
What does one really win, once her other is lost?
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