Stir.

 

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Introduction

The following constitutes a collection of verse, scribbled at odd times, over the last decade and change. I have never granted myself the title of "poet" but I've always enjoyed throwing things together. I like the idea, attributed by some to the Greeks, that poets are the conduits of a signal from the beyond. The dreamlike state of them, the kind of splendid reverie in their tone, makes that seem true.

However, I can never abide Shelley's modernist update, making "poets the unacknowledged legislators of the world." That's both too grand and too limiting for the poetic consciousness. If the poet is a window through which truth speaks, that truth must enter the window. It will be affected by what it passes through. So a poet will make a rotten politician, of the kind that clings to a particular vision and breaks worlds to make it happen. The last century has seen to many of those. Politics is too low and ugly a profession to be worth his attention.

But this is theory. The point is, if anything true or lovely comes through any of these, I must consider them successful. Enjoy.

March 2018

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Dejective

There is no balm in Gilead

There sit no messiahs at wells

    I walk in dull frenzy

    Hoop to hoop, jumping and swearing

        I cannot take, nor read.

        I scribble by grey daylight.

 

When did I punch my ticket?

When did I hitch this mill?

    Was it my braying pronouncement

    “Get into the world, and get dirty”?

        A bawling, belching blasphemy

        A weak one-finger salute.

 

Nor soul, nor salve have I

Nor ‘scape, save at the gloam.

    The way to dusty death,

    A chasm wide and ashen,

        Beckons, while the wind

        Hammers my soft brain.

 

I am the worm of history.

I am the burrower of truth.

    Hiding in the warm earth,

    Sliding on the toes of trees

        Nourish yourselves on my shit,

        The blood runs too cold.

 

Nymphs dance, but do not see me.

Nymphs laugh, and I am safe.

    Abusive delights await not me

    But their pleasure, and the soft trod

        Of dimpled feet, far far away

        From my resplendent hermitage.

 

Date unknown

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Talking Heads

Bass bouncing, breaking bad bodies.

Guitar garage, garrulous, gourmandizing.

Percolating percussio, pensively poppy.

Sound-effects, effective-sounding.

Vocals…vocals…vocals…

 

What we need is a label.

 

2005

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Busted String

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To the Ocean

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Vampyre's Lament

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Barnes & Noble

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Deconstruction

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Standard Afternoon

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The Winter King

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Walk to the Coffee Shop

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This is Forty

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Identity Trap

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Unstuck In Time

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Commuter On The Road To Damascus 

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Money, Paper, and Art

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~

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