and thus the chill becomes the feather
dancing in the air, an almost stirless heavy
growing in my hair, a never-thought of weather
just beyond my stair

and thus the cruel of winter’s kiss
promised to my skin – an always stirring heady
wanting of a sin, a desperate thought of bliss
just beyond again

and thus the sweater becomes the holy rite
dusting off the cold, an almost sterling hurry
cradled warm delight, a forgotten thought of starry night
just to now behold

and thus the starling moot becomes the weather
fleeing on the breeze, an always stirring heaven
growing o’er my hair, a never-thought of feather
just beyond my stare.

and i see them dirty
rolling, spinning, turning
around in their own filth
y thoughts about things
they do not understand
i say, ‘you are filthy
dirty, spinning, turning
around in your own
stupid thoughts about
things you do not under
stand.’ they say, ‘with me
there is more to this
than you can see
on the surface. i am here
fighting for something real
ly important. really real
ly important. what you see
is the ugliness on the out
side, what is here is
the beauty of the words
and dreams.’ i do not
nod. i walk away.

with every day i do not speak
to you, you have to wonder
am i not speaking
to you, or is it just every day
i am wandering without you
and you about without me.

with every day you do not speak
to me, i have to wander
about wondering if i am not
speaking to you, or if it is just
a day i am wandering about you
without wondering about me

with everyday you, I wonder
about wandering about without
me speaking to you
you to me, speaking about
wandering about wondering about
me and everyday me speaking about
wondering about without you.

with every day, I do not speak
do you, i have to wonder
if I am not speaking about me
to you wandering about.

in a gob of mob, they slobber
around the once-green now
full of vinegar and piss
thin plastic thoughts of tupperware
holding them together as they marvel
at themselves. i am not you
i yell into the ravenless tree
that surrounds this point.
they pull back another, and
another and laugh at nothing
except me. in a pasture
gone two hundred years
a thousand cows passed oh yes
this ignorance is the common
place that warbles about on calm
water like a fat and happy swan
certain only that he will neither blow
the trumpet, nor lay breathless
on some rich man’s feast. i yell
into the squirrel-less tree that holds
the pointlessness of a man
full or empty, pissful or pissless or
or or … pissed off.

well done, lyric, you have sung me silent
you have found me between notes
penned me in quietitude, sketched me
held me, loved me, become me there
well rehearsed and versed, and re-versed

oh mad lyric, you have played me sane
you have found me under the melody
la’d me in serenity, strummed me,
touched me, loved me, become me here
well practiced and versed, and re-versed

well done lyric.

One of the many things that most writers have in common is toes. Obviously not all writers, I’m sure there are toe-less writers out there. I mean no disrespect to the toe-less, some of my favorite people have lost at least a couple of toes.

Once, I saw a guy drop a ton and a half of bottled water on his foot and he lost his toes. I don’t think he was a writer at that time, but who knows what has happened in the 20 years since.

My main point here is that writers usually have toes. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Think about that. Just – think about that.

Utopia seems a better choice than oblivion
unless there’s extra black pepper
or possibly mint. I know
many people believe in basil
and nirvana, but I am a fantasy man myself.

nothing says dragon like a bad mix
and a tall whisky straight up.

Perhaps oblivion comes in eleven flavors,
like heaven and hell and all the little rocky steps between
Maybe the impossibility of Utopia strikes a boring note
unless you add bacon or fry it up.

nothing says delicious like bacon
and a quick hot hard deep frying

Whatever the case, I won’t pick either – society
or the soul – I accept that there is no God in government
and no government in God.

Today, I want you to write a poem based on a piece of art that you absolutely love and are moved by that is hanging in a museum within 160km (100 miles) of your house. The rules are thus:

a) 21 lines
b) Alternating long and short – no more than 6 words in the long lines, 3 words in the short lines.
c) You must not use any words from the title of the piece in your poem. Nor may you use the name of the museum where it is found.
d) The title of your piece can have any words you wish, and give the key to find the piece you’re talking about.
e) The poem is to tell the artist why the piece is cruel, wrong, missing something, not quite perfect. You may beg, threaten or cajole the artist as you choose. They may be living or dead, it’s fine either way.
f) post a link to the museum or piece AFTER the work, but otherwise, no notes or comments as to what the poem means or why. If you can’t say it in the work – it must be left unsaid.

What if the ocean were the word
and God were the wave
what if mercy were a pun
and love the greatest joke of all?

I am broken, here, in the last
of poetry. Rumi, you lush
loveable devil – I die
to know you, and weep
because I do not.

what if the stars were the hymn
and God were endless cold between?
What if mercy were a rhyme
and love the eternal lack of meaning?

I am alone, here, in the last
of poetry. Rumi, you thin
reed of hope – I can not reach
you to save me. I can not weep
I only scream as I fall.

what if the colors were the novel
and God the banal?
What if mercy were our lips
and love the words we’ve all forgotten?

I am here Rumi
where are you?

If I could be a gnome on a Wednesday
I would strip naked as a blue jay
and soar up screaming mad to the nearly stars
in praise of the lessening of my body

I could own the moment, the short short moment
that defines a man as more than a voice
more than bones or sinew or hope – own the moment
find my way to the cloud-carpet that divides me
man from man, sight from sight,
angel from devil – and be most me
in the inbetween.

If I could be a gnome on a Wednesday
I would connive and control and capitulate
careen and congest and configure and reconfigure
all of the featherful bits of thoughts
in praise of the nothing that every cell truly is.

If I could only lease the moment, the brevity of breath
that defines a man as more than a choice
more than hair or nails or faith – lease the moment
find my way to the moonless space between the sun
that adds me and subtracts and accept me
man as man, sight as sight,
balance and explosion – the very me that hangs
in the inbetween
until all agreement expires
just in time.