Haiku: Prison Series

a butterfly
on a grapevine
waiting for sunlight

in blue dresses
twins make paper machet
masks of each other

a gentle touch
softest summer
in a sunlit glade

an endless blue sky
cloudless, and hopeless
over the county jail

orange dances
between proud lilies
sunshine rules the monarch

butterfly on my thigh
we both wait
for something to change

all the butterflies
orange
except one

a fox passes
the glade
in summer heat

a cold starry night
a whole dream
only half a moon

zebra strips
camouflage
the lions see nothing

How I write poetry sometimes

I have this amazing friend, who I was talking to about poetry and such, and she was seemingly taken aback when I said, “I don’t buy into the ‘writing from the heart’ or ‘write what you feel’ or any of that crap. I just decide what to write and write it. I have A LOT of poetry that I’ve written… most of it is absolutely awful. I can’t be worried about that though. One must accept what happens and move on.”I thought at first, it was because she took that as a personal insult to her own work, but I think, maybe that wasn’t it. It is as much an insult to anyone that reads what I write, and doesn’t think it’s crap, and feels inspired  or moved by it. It suggests that I”m being insincere and manipulative in everything I write and do.

And, as I’ve said to anyone who asks, It isn’t as if anything I’m writing is some great masterpiece — the English language will be fine without my tiny bit of turd on the grand pile of verbiage.

When I write, the meaning and sincerity are there, even if, during the act of writing, I do my level best to not let my emotions control my pen. I realize that I am at odds with almost every poet I meet on these issues.

I write best when I separate myself from my feelings on things. I construct poems, and try to use craft and skill. One of the first things I do is try to remove the line I like most and rewrite the poems without it. Almost every poet I know, thinks I’m an idiot. BUT, it works for me. Unless asked directly, I don’t tell anyone how to write poetry for just that reason.

To my way of thinking, poetry is just like any other writing. It’s no different to write a poem than it is directions on how to tie shoelaces. The only difference is the effect. A poem typically works towards the emotional; the tools we use to write a poem are more effective in evoking feelings and emotions than the language and tools one uses to describe putting together a bookcase.

When I start a poem, I decide its purpose and atmosphere first. That allows me to select the language, the rhythm, and the images more specifically relevant to the piece. It’s really no different than how I might write an essay and the fact that feelings are set aside does not remove the meaning of the message.

I do not write for some sort of emotional catharsis. My writing gives me all the joy that any act of free will might, but the connection to an audience — the moment when someone understands some something that is in my head, and understands me — THAT is a reason to write.

What I ‘feel’ is irrelevant to writing process except perhaps as subject matter, but what I think, what I learn, what I know, and how I’m able to communicate my feelings and thoughts through writing using poetic tools, or prose tools; that’s an amazing thing full of meaning.

Fully grasping what I want to say, finding some inner calm, and letting go of random stray emotion and feelings before I write, that does not mean that what I write was not ABOUT my feelings, it means I tried to set them aside while I wrote it. Writing for me is about communicating, it’s not about making myself feel good. I’m not often trying to release some inner demons or work out my thoughts when I write. That is more what I do when I sit quietly by myself.

Regardless, the point is this: I’m not insulting you when I say I don’t buy into the write-what-you-feel or ‘write-from-the-heart’ things. I am sure for many of you, that’s exactly what you do, and it works for you.

To those I will inevitably insult whenever I talk about these things — I suppose you can take this as a blanket pre-apology, and then I’ll give you a personalized one after the fact.

Shame and cirrhosis

Kerouac told me the other day
about downs, and ups
broken tibias, and long yardage,
then the pull of words
to Columbia

the push of words when he soured
when he fought, when he failed. (Fuck Lou, hard.)

He was hurt, i think, i wonder.

I am sure
i heard him downtown, it was his echo

he was drunk
on Moody street, muttering in french
I think embarrassed to go home
and let his mother see
how beaten he was

I told him, “Ti-jean, life is not a garbage pile
it is a junk store.”

he slurred a laugh
i wish i knew him better, i wish
but he is gone.

so we disappeared Good men
very very good men, back into the poetry of his liver
there by the gate of Edson cemetery.

proximity to the sun

the world is spinning quietly
in a murk of nothing much
i am dying by the sea
and feeling out of touch

the moon just said good bye, I think
the stars just gave a nod
a million times I despaired
that the cod fish thinks he’s God

the world is spinning quietly
the sun so far away
93,000,000 miles seems an irony
I don’t know what to say.

regarding the shapes of clouds

I can not sit, I am a prisoner of standing
up to see into the sky behind her eyes,
I am handless and footless and wanton mad
a billow of cloud screaming up her skirt,
the gods of air bark orders like dyslexics
to shackle me there in orange plaid pants
they tell me the truth about blindness until
i beg for them to rip off my ears and save me
from the crueler things – like words

she snickers at my bodiless pleas
there are no boys that drift without tongues
pass by without faces, that dream
beautiful things, like me.

I can not sit, I am a prisoner of freedom
up in the cool airless begging place beneath
the moon, i pillow and pillory the notions
of dogs on tall mountains howling
she pulls a shawl about her, i see the truth
about deafness, until she begs the wind
to save her from the crueler things
like life.

i snicker at her bodiful pleas
there are no girls that drift without tongues
pass by without hips, that imagine
beautiful things, like me.

watching as she idles by

perhaps a lip is just a lip
a finger is a fool
perhaps the vile longings slip
amongst the broken rules

perhaps a kiss is nothing
and a worry even less?
perhaps the sea despairs for me
but still I won’t confess

perhaps a touch is just a touch
a moment isn’t time?
perhaps a sin means only love
and love is just a crime?

every damned day at the gallows

she cut the rope into 6 days and a frayed edge.
gathered up to not really save the falling
or punish the damned. she said, life is a pond
leave me to my frogs. I laughed, she cried, this
is the fact, i hate you. the shape of the ropes became
a boat, a turtle, a monkey, a god, a telephone, and a noose
I was a frayed edge and wished
to hang with god

screw you, she said, handed me the noose
and showed me it was hours
carefully tied it around my neck, tightly
the other end over the oak where our names
were carved.

she said, if only it was february
the chill would tell you this rope is for life
and she let me god
with a snap and fond little wiggle
in her walk

I saw nothing more.

Did you ever have that dream about publishers

Did you ever have that dream about publishers? You know the one where you’ve called them together in your posh New York City office to discuss the millions of dollars they want to give you to aggregate your insanity into a multi-book deal.

“No, nonono. Look, I realize Penguin has been dying to give me donkey-loads of cash in the form of gold coins just back from their secret storage facility somewhere under the alps, but you have to understand, I hate penguins. They smell bad and they have those nasty pointy beaks that scream out to the fact they’re going to try to peck my eyes out. It just won’t work, I’m sorry”

“Look, I realize Harper Collins is somewhat reputable as publishers go, but, I’m sorry, if you can’t pay me in some combination of Rolex watches and platinum doohickeys, I feel like you’re not really serious. Also, I think I need references.”

“Real Estate? Well, Ok, how much? The state of Montana? Hmmm.. can you throw in the odd little strip of Idaho that makes no actual sense squishing there between Washington and Montana? No? Why are we bothering? You people make me sick.”

Self o’steam

If i were slightly more agnostic,
I think i’d focus on the necessity of blue holes
to fill the void left when my pancreas vacations.

Big giant blue holes, so powerful
even the stupid ideas can’t make it out
only swears and jeans and kids who went to tufts
in sadly brown hoodies.

Awkwardly blue holes, suggesting
entire days when the stores are must stay closed
For fear the police will come and buy up all their blue cheese dressing
leaving them with virtually inedible Buffalo wings

Sinister blue holes, enraged
because their rights have been violated by the lack of space
in their mother’s closet, and now they’ve been forced out
into the work force to fend for themselves and pay their stupid
student loans.

Musical blue holes, so sad
and repetitive
even I could remember the words

That’s crazy though, this is me we’re talking about,
and who could believe that?

a poem in lavender

she was dancing on a sidewalk chalk outline
of a man I knew back in vietnam even though
i was never there except that time i watched 
that movie with charlie sheen before he died
on two and a half men next week. 

i said to her, "her... please, don't
stop dancing." 
so she stopped dancing, and started
to mime this crow that I had seen in someone's yard
a few weeks before when I was ploughing the fields
i have never been to in your life. I said, "her...
what does it mean when you stub your toe
watching love
boat?"

she kicked a rock (not hudson) and lisped
something about julie or gopher or isaac
and i wondered how it all related back to my fantasy
I never bothered to have of her in a lavender tutu
drinking shots of V-8 and railing about choochoos
and big ol' chevy pick-ups. Orange and 
missing the citrus of the moment. 

I said to her, "her... please, don't

so she did. 

Oh God, she did

and there i was it was d-day, or peal harbor
dazed and sitting on the side of vesuvius asking
Mrs. Craib, what was it like
'no one liked it'
she said.