Friday, September 30, 2011

Confession of a Poetry Salesman

I myself may not pass the
"who cares test."
I am fed up with selling.

I have sold some poetry
in my life but it's not worth the investment.
I give it away or even pay people to take it
(trying to sell poetry in this market
is often that anyway--
paying people to take it).

I know the kind of god who
works for me. I
keep my hand in my art
in spite of the futility and absurdity.

Like an insect
that lives near a bird's nest, I
go about my business
unconcerned that I will
be devoured by something bigger tomorrow.

Declaration: A micro-essay poem

My god
is a bearded man
who sits on a cloud.
Why not? I am
not ashamed of it.
It makes me feel good.

The same
with my faith in art,
that art can make me
great and immortal.

I will take the beliefs I enjoy.
No one will set my standards for me.

Saturday, September 24, 2011


You have to work so hard to stay sane.
Obviously sanity is not an involuntary
reflex like breathing.

Memory makes poems
out of mundane days.

The eye corrects asymmetical circles.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Living the Absurd Life

I am a
good happiness doo-bee.
I stay out of the way.

Happy face
is my umbrella and
my troubles are packed in my old kit bag.

I have
directed my feet
to the sunny side.

My words transmit
no new facts.
My smile,

turned inward
signifies only

Monday, September 19, 2011

Critique of a Metaphor-Driven Poem

Lovely dance.
I see you on a half-lighted stage,
arms outstretched,
in physique-revealing tights.

Strange beepy music
excretes from a cassette player.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

The Truth about Hope

What depresses me
is that I am losing
all the contests and that
my side is collapsing toward last.

I watched your face
as you sank away
round the corner, into mist.
Assumed it all would resume.
Every day we would
wake together.

I never understood endings. I am
educated to hope.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

What Is Memory For?

When I sojurned
half my life
I was a stranger.

Almost where I was born
but still not home.

So I can map myself
in time, route
along the diagram of dangers,
make neat catalogs.
That's what memory is for.

Not this.

Sunday, September 04, 2011

Party Crowd

laughs and
expunges me, kicks out

sad quiet things.
Laughers don't

care about lines and turns.
claim priority,

smooth sailing,
never see stop.

Note: The old introvert vs extravert rivalry plays out. But there is also the matter of carelessness. Laughter causes carelessness.