Nothing

Nothing but her youth

Nothing but her youth, and when it's gone

Will she be a mother to her kids?
Heaven blesses corpses neath the lawn,

But leaves them there. Nature's structure rids

Itself of substance periodically,

And gives the earth the freedom of the sea,

And a pentimento of good poetry.

1-1-14

 

Kaufman

Kaufman as a person.

Kaufman as an artist.

And I like the way that Kaufman worked.

Quickly with a pencil,

Pages were deleted,

And a perfect comedy created.

Then my god! Of course the shining wit.

1-1-14

True Verse

Distracted and preoccupied,

The verse is coming out -

Truths I never meant to realize.

It isn't quite as Keats so glibly said it.

Every truth is hardly beautiful.

But if a verse is beautiful, it's true.

And the songs I've written several days

As though my stomach surfaced, are my soul.

Is there nothing good about my soul?
A strong endeavor and the best intent

Cannot overcome humanity.

1-2-14

Embarrassment & Dying

He plaintive said, “I'm dying.”

“Mon dieu,” he said. “It's over.”
He'd never prayed before,

And felt a little foolish.

Embarrassment and dying.

Was nothing to be spared me?

Life's humiliations

Had kept him in his chamber.

And he was blushing now.

1-2-14

 

Nothing

A poem's an impression of the world,

Whether it occurred or was designed.

I am sick. No happiness comes through.

A poem's an impression of a mind.

He's your friend, you have to tell him no,

Quiet and with sadness and dismay.

Humans and their cult have made life hell,

But there are many other things to say.

Little shoots of green upon a vine

Weave among the trellis and create

A verse that has no origin – a truth

Aimless, uncreated – just like fate.

Something comes from nothing. I create.

Pusillanimous, I live alone,

Small as nothing in the universe.

Hopefully the mongrel has a bone.

1-2-14

The Writer

Another wishful loser

Publishing his books.

The iron pyrite of self publication.

Failure makes you difficult

And ignores sensation.

I don't know why,

But deities don't cry.

Standing on the corner

Of Whitendale and Mooney

With a box of books,

A cardboard sign,

Like a ragged looney

To anyone who looks.

Paper pages, and the covers shine.

1-3-14

New Poets

Most poets are terrible bores

And now they've tossed away

The rhythm and rhyme that gave them charm.

What have they to say?

They ditch the laws of language

And make themselves unique.

In a carnival by Kafka,

An ostentatious freak.

In an effort to be odd

(“Poetry's a game”),

They break the cookie cutter,

And all come out the same.

1-3-14