Fire and Rain

Listen. James is singing
Fire and Rain. Jesus' friend
stands behind my shoulder,
utters syllables and sounds,
reflections of the unfolding.
Of course, you are welcome.
It’s not like I have a plan.

Nothin' better to do

Looks just like me, doesn't he?

Your result for The Which Famous Poet Are You Test...

Philip Larkin!

You scored 50 Demeanour, 59 Debauchery, 63 Traditionalism, and 55 Expression!

Cheer up, asshole. Everyone loves you, and still you treat them like shit. And still they love you! They love you all the more for it! Why is that, do you suppose? Because you're a freakin genius, that's why! You make an insult sound like love song! You spew your venom at the world and the world laps it up! From your dark, ugly little heart gushes forth a veritable geyser of gorgeous ideas and melodious language. I hate you. Let's hang out sometime. Your masterpiece is "The Less Deceived".

Take The Which Famous Poet Are You Test at HelloQuizzy

Some folks are just made for struttin'

They're Coming Home

Twilight silence exits.
The golden ones,
captives of the night--
they're coming home.
Once upon a time,
morning scents adorned us.
We did not fear baring all.
Now, spying from a distance,
our visions blur.
We watch mothers
share a moment of laughter
before they burn the books.
Joy of Sex. Kama Sutra.
In the midday sun,
we peer from under straw hats
to watch the neighbors
poke about their gardens.
Dancing with sunflower women,
they ignore the shadows in our eyes.
Fortune loves circles.
What bondage?
Embrace the clipped wings.
Accept the rings,
the baubles, the decorations.
Their chill shields us from the prophesy:
Like father, like son.
We give teachers our treasure and forget.
Something wicked? Delusions!
A moment of frustration? The moon!
Voices of fury intrigue us.
For peace, we give our strength to monsters.
Pour the wine. Drown the roots of persuasion.
Murder? No, only arms.
The mirror is cracked.
There are fireworks in heaven.
Congratulations. Here's your star.

Two for Tuesday

Rhyme Me To Hell

Adam handed back the apple,
minus three big bites.
It's got to have an edge, he said,
or it isn't post-avant.
He said it takes imagination.
The surprise comes after the turn.
There's no affect without manipulation.
He had eaten around the worm.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Let me think about it

I Wanna Feel Something Video

Creepin' closer to the edge

Today at Stoning the Devil, Adam is talkin' creepy. Creepy/macabre is edgy. Edgy is Post-Avant. He posts as an example The Preserve by Aaron Belz. In the comments, someone questions the idea that the poem is post-avant, and Adam asks the questioner what poem he thinks has edge. Immediately I thought of Rauan Klassnik dreaming Ron Silliman. It's been a while since I read these, so I revisited. I was only slightly surprised by the elephants and birds. Heh. Okay, that's a lie. I was totally distracted. They're out to get me, I tell ya.

The devil, you say

Is there an intellectual in the house? I'm not sure, but I think I may have been called a snide smart ass.

Oh, woe.

Maybe I should have lied and told Adam I loved that poem. That it's the edgiest poem I've ever read. Swear to God and hope to spit. I want to go read it fifty more times, maybe even memorize it. Or perhaps I'll just chop off my head instead. Less painful.

Silent, the Drum

The drummer straddles her
belly-down across the bed.
Double-fisted fury
pounds its rhythm on her head.

Glassy-eyed, enraptured
by the song of primal beast,
he's deaf to the cacophony--
children's screams cannot compete.

Then finally, the drum,
wet and red, dares to respond.
"You're scaring the children."
With four words, this concert's done.

Poets Be

"Poets, be receptive. Poets, be inventive." ~Nada Gordon

Poets be yammering at each other.
Standing tall, stretching their necks,
poets be primping in my bathroom mirror,
caressing themselves and casting
long shadows on the wall behind me.
Poets be picking breakfast out of their teeth
with paperclips and folded sticky notes.
Watching, waiting for a clue, poets be
wondering what you mean, and why,
and if you know your code is showing.
Poets be brooding, standing on the line,
ready to trade their pretty words for grit
and gristle and piles of mismatched socks.
Poets be polishing the salt lick with raw tongues,
collecting wet bits of grated flesh
in teacups, Mason jars, and empty soda cans.
Poets be ready. Company's coming.

If you're wondering...

why I have this dumb look on my face, it's because Tiel Aisha Ansari is talkin' about meter over at Knocking From Inside. I have a mental block. You know it must be pretty bad when even Dr. Seuss can't fix it. Woe.

Hey! I was just thinking about that.

Okay, guys. This synchronicity thing is startin' to weird me out. A while back, it was birds. Everywhere I looked, birds. (Actually, they're still there, but I've grown used to them. They don't surprise me much anymore.) Now it's the elephant. Life is but a circus. Hurry. Somebody send in the clowns! What's really funny is that the poets' site I created a few weeks back (but have yet to open) is called Poetic Jesters. It has kind of a carnival theme. Isn't that funny? Well, isn't it? Hmmm. Maybe it's just me...


By the way, has anyone really figured out what Silliman is talkin' about yet? I keep fallin' asleep.

Clowns and Poets

Long-faced poets in blue
ruffs and baggy sleeves
dance the zombie shuffle
around the white elephant
lying dead in center ring.

In the rafters, bored monkeys
chatter, spit, and throw pop-
corn and jellybeans in the air.
Now and then one stops
to scratch and sniff itself.

The fat ringmaster, wearing
scarlet topcoat and tails,
straightens his greasy top hat.
His eyes a bloody whip, he
sneers then shouts: Submit!

At the theater down the road,
the magician doesn't flaunt
his pain. He keeps it hidden
behind his albino rabbit
and the curtains' dancing fringe.

Landscapes

Some poems are meadows,
sweeps of sweet grassland;
contented, we graze
in frames of barbed wire.
Others are jungles,
teeming with danger;
passionate tangles
amaze and beguile.

Some poems are mountains,
heaps of grand magic;
stunning, their power
forbids us the peaks.
Others are brooklets,
void of intention;
trickles of giggles
meander, unchecked.

Some poems are oceans,
vast and uncharted;
reason eludes us
in mystery's depths.
Others are deserts,
lifeless and dismal;
parched in the wasteland,
we pray for relief.

In various shapes,
poems are created;
we gain perspective
through another's eye.
Still, I've never seen
the world in one poem
nor met a poet
who's mastered that form.