Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Today I watch a poet do her thing

they’re always doing things, unhinged but right

always she’s that I think are doing

things that matter but don’t, you know – they are crazy

ranting and raving making us white guys

feel shitty about the way we burned lands, bridges

and –


mostly people

tinging them lightly with whitely fire

we were just playing, as our teachers taught us

we pledged just like them to the flag

for which it stands, you all stood.

only when we set the world on fire

we got medals not moabs, nothing dire.

and so I am still here and here and here and here.

marching everyone else has to do

mostly to almost claim the existence I get for free.

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art and patterns

art lives in the mind.

but there is no mind.

art lives in perception.

but there is no perception.

art lives as patterns.

there are patterns.

but there is no art.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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Yesterday someone told me that science was contingent and logic necessary.

I struck the stone – at first lightly
Then I dug in and drew blood.

Fractured assumptions flared their flimsy premise
Crumbling before less than mighty blows

This someone warned me if you crack too hard
The stone carries impact damage
Scaring the surface
Forcing you to sand and polish

That is if what you care about is something smooth and approachable.

Will this stone yield to me?

Or am I yielding to it?

My logic battering it tink after tink
Forces my theory that no matter what I do
This stone will be what it is
And it is up to me, flawed and frayed, to ask
It questions

The response is Wittgensteinien. Silent and yet understood
A brooding proposition of certain doubt
That nothing yields everything.

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place poem: Andover, OH

State routes cutting through fields of home grown generations

lives lived in desolate desperations


pull up to a driveway, to a home, brimming with life

completely contained within this acreage

the woods, a garden with a full year of food, a pond

100 years of fond memories of raising kids, corn, horses, birds, bees

trees grown and felled and turned into a barn and house and fire


and a town square, usually empty, but on thursday nights and some saturdays

the homes release their owners into the restaurants and community fare

sharing stories and catching up on those no longer there

gone off to school or war or a career

likely one day to return to repair

broken hearts and spirits

as only a self reliant existence can

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