free verse

Tripartite

postmodern_poem_2013

Hello.
Anybody here?
Heylooo?

A priest
and a prostitute
enter a bar.

They come up to the counter.
The bartender: what canna getcha?

The hooker smiles,
same as yesterday, Sam.

The priest, swollen
and sweating smiles,
I’ll have a dark century, Sam.

The clouds moved through
my notebook, anxious
as snails along rugged time.

Someone?
Anybody?

The prostitute shows
the sweetness of her blackberry nipples.
$15 a boob job.

Alfred white as a number says, OK.

I drew a whole city in my notebook
and
in one corner
I built a home
yellow with a mountain of beauty
inside the living room.

Knock, knock.

Alfred was gratified, the stars
trembling in his dark glassy pupils.

That’s $15, she said.

Half the pages are torn out,
theoretical mistakes I say;
but the bulk of my notebook
has black markings

like the shadows of birds
in a mile of snow.

Contemporary Poetry

near everything

new_poet_modern

Maybe the air is vertebra
only you walk home
bending the muscle
of time,
a drunk man leaves

on the pub’s counter
the fire of thought
nothing changes

we can amass anguish
into a dragon
and see it writhe in
its halo

find a way knower
comb a molecule at a time
to be handsome

for destiny
that now dissolves in your honey-
dripping cupped hands

perhaps we hang immense
with city at our roots
what matters to be
draped in cloud

when age has a swollen
idea buried like a spine on
the morning soft

earth
step on pure grass
who leaves this animal
to sow in structure

the dream the
struggle
the science

of being such
near everything.

Contemporary Poetry

the moment

nonsense_poetry

The lens capturing ache, a spot left to blind around nobody’s serial zipper. Afar while ignorant by her purpose a sigh rehearsed black blink the tune is closing the drumming aperture. Zoom aerially alongside sensation my mirror coldly awakening after rebellion shoots truth like arrow shorn of wings. Meanwhile a little closer my love carefully and hairy the machine makes appointment between moons and bus stops. Shift dimension because the rule has carved rust on laughter and soil drips sardines, hungry small animalcules and vulgar drunk remarks. The visitor FLASH awesome teeth while zones of legs remember the long overhaul and missionary status. Lately a fly meditates on the heavy scent of sums, mean chasms calibrating the here and now; an owl overflies the morning damned. The events captured logistically by nature’s circumference white underpants exposed within the thick fog of human greed. Sex wonderfully colored, centrally in the mind because a flower is pure in the mind better than an orgy of doubts sweating paradoxes. Buildings always poured with honey and served at midnight with a television smile. Mystically our school shrank from situation to circumstance to coincidence like fish, schools of fish diving deeper into unknown coordination with night above bowing as strange concave dark banana. The birds tiny church angels motes of dust leave individually one by one consciousness a door with the figure of a feminine sound. The animal buys a ticket to catharsis calmly the wine rhymes the trees are sharp silent sticks. The animal fenced in irony learns the catechism of turning on its own axis. The animal takes the arm of the herd expecting nothing less than the wave of feasting on echoes. The animal stores sunlight in its radio, tissues of right and wrong, the effort is its monastery. The animal against animal but bubbles merge with soap bubbles like families holding hands forever against the backdrop of mountains forever, terrible shadow-drenched mountains forever that rise toward the pinnacle and forever pierce the dead corpse of night with their tips of white melting gold, forever captured in ache.

Contemporary Poetry

Phantasmagoria

stomach_of_the_sun_poem

He stopped the drugs
to console himself
with the open
lengths of countries
and the silver
fever of mountains
and when he left home
to return to thick everything
and books galloping shadows
fiery in the minute of knowledge,
in the day of life, through the wind
to a place where history
is built with azures
heavy in the hand
because to be born
here I am
like a quartz
inside the stomach
of the sun.

Contemporary Poetry

nocturnalist

poetry_of_time

There like a bolt
like a stone amidst
a dust beyond
deep in shine
a pocket w/noon
and no shadow
a golden fury
himself mad
speaking loudly
and evening
with lawlessness
into rivulets a feather
nobody wings
possibility’s a stream
hours whirl
he types ‘whiteness
merge with tear
and this earth
trickled like spark
upon memory’
he listens
apparently
the wind has a mouth
and the same questions
about time.

Contemporary Poetry

they’ll know what to do

weird_poetry-blog

 

help
poets
my voice
a big blot or blob or block of black
terror
is stuck
like a burning whisper

in my throat
the rust
leaves a bitter
shadow
in the melody
of the silence

and sleep
the narrative of time
condensed
like magic
in the empty fire
of death

dust with
elegance
like the echoes
in a dream

Contemporary Poetry

thirst

windows to soul

Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:

Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….

Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.

In the same play, Cyrano wrote:

Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.

One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.

That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.

So quick, let’s raise the curtains of alma.

Contemporary Poetry