PRE-POETRY

May 31, 2017

Foraging is one way we fauna

Have found purpose in all this breathing

We’ll search, and trust that sustenance

Will surface to topsoil in time for reverence

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(unfinished)

F O R G E S

May 1, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
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(from 2010)
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.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges

 

OLDE FACADES

March 22, 2017

West, we rode & wrested away of, save the olde facades of   Savannah.

When in Jesus-sodden Southern Georgia

Some sign solomn told me  “try him”,

I ran & ran that mantra by

& waited ’till my lips straightened.

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Here,  I take my sweet (& dear, fleeting) time

Rake  up  raw  data…

 

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I’m readyish I guess for you to take my order

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N E W

March 13, 2017

i)

M  U  C  H

often it’s uncertain   to see,

to see the true things through,

but certainly sometime’s there’s time

when surely much of what’s new

when noticed might matter

to you or rather

to me

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.                    ii)

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D  U  E

I fear I forget that the frail,

nearly unable, but

when a whisper of   Will…

when they muster an incalculable

measure of  reach

to straighten, and lean up

for what’s due.

That’s alot to wait for

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The Freshest thing in the clearing

by the pond’s sunk boat,

near a nest,  There’s this ringing

drop, possibly  just now dotting

one leaf,  left  just new

by all the dew

That’s what I wait for

 

STANDING BY CLOSE

March 8, 2017

young  acidTongued  Erato,

go forward  yr foul followThrough,

spitWhisper her cryptic  figures.

i’d  dampen  the  barb,

reshapened of fogWebs.

i’ll soften all  blows against the  liveWire

i’ll try to translate  all i need

from  freed  ashes

from the spillFree  gashes in the flare’s hottest fireGrate.

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If I could face the palace/Going holed up in a hotel/Is not one way I’d go

IT’S DELICATE BUSINESS

February 23, 2017

 

 

It’s a damned near full moon

It’s clear,  a bracing

evening.  I’ll exhale out

to trace the treeline  off

to a nothing northern florida town.

She sat at a flea market

where tons of townies in camouflage jackets

pressed past her at her table and chair.

Her pronounced pretty eyes

were the ideal quirk for gypsy fortune tell work.

Green, like beach glass.

How might they see me?

How can she be expected to espouse

All Ahead  for me   there?

At that table & chair there, exposed

to that flea market crowd?

Men, off to gun tables.

Women, drawn up the way

where puppies are given away

(hunting dogs no doubt)

How Soul-intimate can my gypsy and I get?

Can she pull out

All that’s in

In all of this dumbed down din?

It’s delicate business…

There’s this inarticulate air here

Against which…without a hitch..

.I want to wonder over every word..

I want to wonder for every prophetic word.

How can we do this with clothes on?  Absurd.

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I can see, by the chance

of this damned near full moon,

I’ll watch the line of my breath dance

just off the distant treeline,

Off to tomorrow’s full sun soon.

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(at least a half dozen years back)

DARKEST POND

February 8, 2017

 

A late,  the too latest,  drive

Car thick  with ambient music

On  back  home

On back roads   I can come upon,

In deep,  way back,

The darkest pond,  I can  plumb

The darkest pond

I can Cool off

I can char

Edgy angular contours

In deep

 

CHOSEN PRE-DAWN ALCHEMY

February 1, 2017

 

 

There’s some/
Confusion/ some/ frustration
Smack immersed  in blue smoke,
Go check up the projection booth.
“I couldn’t  and  shouldn’t
Have ordered this show.
And that’s just  truth.”

Way  wrong epic screenplay
Is not long enough.
If there’s subtle subtext
It’s lost in the rough.
We know how helpful laughtracks go,
My own master is so diasterly low
It’s just too private a joke.

I’ve known
You’ve drawn yr own conclusions.
My own solutions are silly as  shepherds are  asea.

Desires and Go-forth fires   I’m put out.
Dire old deserts. It’s cold certainly.
I’ve a drought to drink about.
For me, chosen, pre-dawn alchemy,
Actually,
Chosen, is  a good chaser.

ESPIAL

April 10, 2016

“I swing the brush and was conducting the Chaos”

Got on my knees, needed & got  grout out

I showered shame off my inner shins

Got out some to name nine or so sins I never believed in

I showed  god everything  I never believed

Fleshing out these precious hours especialiously  their spectres

“But how many are fleeing anything to that?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

” ich schwinge den Pinsel und dirigiere das Chaos..”  from

https://herschelmann.wordpress.com/2016/04/08/fruehjahrsputz/

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“Mais combien fuient rien qu’à cette idée ?”  from

Peur, souffrance intérieure

 

 

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20160407_113540(image:”Expectorate”  http://namelessneed.deviantart.com/art/expectorate-601720396 )

MY MELANCHOLY VAMPIRE

January 31, 2016

IMG_4957

 

I could could guess  you’re just near the end.

Tho’, You’re  so  dour

You don’t even stir at yr own humour,

Or don’t/can’t you comprehend?

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When you nightly set out

Under yr mighty moon

To brighten and heat

Yr best features,

Yr long face  goes  on & on,

Though the shadows are gone

And when you face yr  distant stare

It doesn’t stop

At dead stars

But goes to their backrow bleachers.

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He’s aroused as the voices

In trees, on the breezes,

Distract him  post haste  w/ poetries,

They do extract his true face, those  ghosts in a wind.

Mostly,  They’ll  lift  him,

But their leverage runs thin.

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.                          (2006)

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