I’m going to marry him—
All the men my
Mind has a crush on.
No one finds Aldous
Huxley as hot as I do
Nor wants to share the
Bed as much with that
Angle-faced man.
-M.
(Day 15 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
Writing Life
I’m going to marry him—
All the men my
Mind has a crush on.
No one finds Aldous
Huxley as hot as I do
Nor wants to share the
Bed as much with that
Angle-faced man.
-M.
(Day 15 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
One feminine hand one
Masculine hand wearing
A heavy gold watch ticking
She sat down inside me
Settled down inside me
Her heavenly blue
Robes enfolded me as
Heaven IS and enfolds
Her, Her head all my head
My thoughts all Her
Thoughts She the Law the
Law Love
She said
Don’t
Be Afraid
-M.
(Day 14 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit. I made it to two weeks! -Victory lap-)
All I said
All I said
All I said to ALL That IS
Volumes volumes volumes
Unrecordable
All She said
All She said
All the ALL She said
Don’t
Be afraid
-M.
(Day 13 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
Gods misunderstand
Death—Death himself
Deathless misunderstands
Forever destruction—forever
Loss—a self that decays inside
Itself until it disappears.
A god, from a full-
Bodied god can become a
Lesser-bodied god—an
Insignificant pinpoint of
Flickering ether, but still
Sovereign though infinitesimal and
Over unbounded time can
Gather unto its own flickering
Ether substance—body new
Come to body that was and
Will be forever
Body new come to body eternal that
Misunderstands body new
Come to dust
Depersonalized as dust comes
To gather to itself
A noisome film
On the cradle ledge of an infinitely
Born and born and born
Infant god
-M.
(Day 12 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
I am grateful for gum
But only for myself and
The highbrow few who
Know how to chew
Silently
Everyone else? A crack
Or a smack should get you ten
In the pen where open-
Hearted and closed-
Mouthed missionaries
Teach by parable how to
WWJD it
In regards to absent-
Minded yet tasty and
Socially acceptable cud.
-M.
(Day 10 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
Dragging the little tree’s
Corpse behind me a
Diatribe to the heatwaves
Rising from the cement
It’s not you, little tree
Doing what little trees do
Maybe even trying to
Shade the porch in
Your little tree ugly
Intrusive volunteer way.
It’s not you little tree
It’s the gardener
Who let you grow
Lets the rose bushes
Grow too
Evil arms that reach and
Grab in the walk
Blind to anything
Apparently
But mow and go—
Especially go.
-M.
(Day 9 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
My poetry often tends toward context-less sketches.
Today’s, for example, is just about wings—red, crepe paper wings. There is no big meaning. There is no money line. It’s just…. here’s this picture. Is there beauty there?
Does poetry need a money line, or is the image enough? Is it enough to sketch and offer the sketch without offering an interpretation of the sketch?
I feel like it is but just about everyone I’ve ever encountered either teaching a workshop or participating in a workshop with me thinks differently.
I painted red, crepe-paper wings today standing up to a hurricane. That’s it. No context. No background to give you an idea of where the “wearer of the wings” is, where she came from, or who she is. I think the picture is pretty enough on its own. If a visual artist had to go into a long expository about what the pearl meant and why it was significant and what that girl was doing there and why her head was turned that way and the deeper meaning you should get out of it, it would be an unsuccessful painting. I feel the same can be true of some poems.
Here. Here’s the picture. Sometimes that’s enough.
Sometimes money lines get tiresome.
This could be me simply justifying bad poetic behavior—a naughty habit like the creative equivalent of hanging up the phone without saying “good-bye” or “I love you.” I’m not above rationalization. I may be above context, but not rationalization. Never rationalization.
How important is context really? How much can I get away with, or, more to the point, how little?
Am I a minimalist, or am I lazy?
Anthony Hopkins looks into the camera and asks, “Am I a good man, or a bad man?”
-M.
Wire and crimson crepe paper
Feathers flexed
Full span against the
Hurricane that doused the
Firestorm from which the
Wearer of the wings
Was born
-M.
(Day 8 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
Draw and quarter my life
all lies
all the same their shelter
pooling in the gaps between
limb and limb
and limb
and limb
-M.
(Day 7 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)
I respect you less because
You love me unconditionally
I don’t respect you at all
You went in for a kiss and
I gave you my neck
Enough perfume to keep
You panting for another year
As if you needed a reason, dog-
-ed devotion is an un-sexy face
You let me shatter you
And I shatter you
A matter of course like college boys becoming
Sadistic prison guards when
Given the go-on by closet sadistic
Psychiatrists in the name of a science
Doomed to perpetual infancy, grow
A pair
And some hair and tell me to
My face I’m a bitch
Be a goddamned man
Stop dotting your hearts with
I… I… I… am not worth it
Have made myself not worth it
On purpose you shake
My linear foundations
One pulsing emotion that you are
I look down on you
for that too.
-M.
(Day 6 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)