Post 1

source: RJ Wats


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(Five instrumental political poems posted as comments around the web on sites specific to the poetry under the pen name ‘a poet in India’)

You’re Not Supposed to Exist
Oh, New Territory
Come On In
And the Storm Ceases to Exist

I sit here looking at a coming storm and am unable to find the stillness of mind in the midst of all the distant thunder that would enable me to write poetry, my primary pencil, and rather than scurry like a little rabbit to find shelter, crawl in bed and put the bed sheet over my head, I’m putting fingers to keyboard (pen to paper in the old tongue) and facing come what may in the best way I can here, by busying my mind with the writing of prose (which can sure sound like poetry if you’re listening skills aren’t all that great), and write it as if it’s not so much people I’m writing to but to that ear or eye in the storm itself that, at the very least, impersonally takes note of the little animal standing up in defiance shaking its fist at it.  An ad hominem argument the storm might reply, but I don’t think a storm listens to reason.  Sympathetic magic you might say, but unabashed passion has its way of influencing things profoundly if it has gone beyond the reactionary and is able to capture the universal, sound something of what all feel, the thought on which I leave the storm behind and turn to you, or rather, to more the temporal specifics of this CV, though in that round about way that still keeps one eye open on the eternal.  Okay, maybe both.

I often question myself not so much why I write poetry (I simply must) but why I want to show it people, why as I verse and turn a phrase somewhere near the revealing power of language, or think I have (until I read it later and hear again the thing itself has eluded me), I want to find someone, anyone, and say, “Here, read this!” (Like Shakespeare?)  Sometimes I think I’m nothing more than the little boy on a swing suddenly swinging high and wanting all to see – look, look at me! –, wanting people to pay attention to me and my little world, wanting praise and validation, but then I chance upon some poem some other poet has written, and I’m lifted out of myself and at the same time feel for a moment that I can do this, live that is and live deeply, rightly or wrongly my best, for someone out there has voiced it in some way: what it’s like being a person in oceans of people hemmed in by the sheer weight of existence on a volcanic island being hurled at breakneck speed around a burning star in the astonishing immensities of infinite Space.  Coming across something like that, seeing for a split wide open second the under the umbrella personhood of the person who versed the poem – that underlying almost always hiding shorelessness of self that has made the poet, for a line, a verse, all the world –, hence the cursing, praying, living, dying person of everybody, of even the sneaky blood sucking mosquito skillfully flying haywire to try and avoid death in my clapped hands, well, let’s just say as a poet I know I have a purpose higher than my swing.

You don’t get it do yah?
That’s him on the breakfast too.
Could be anybody,
Rich man poor man,
Even classless people.
Could even be your neighbor.

You know the deal is
We’re all together
At least a person worth,
As valuable as the universe.

I’d like to go beyond these musings –
How about hear the flaming spirit in fire?
You got a poet rise.
You got a poet calls the shots,
Make of existence some little bullshit
That means everything.

What are you looking at?
He jumped started;
He went and found it incredible.
The two arguments will take you there.

The Eye of Change

Art, and its written and oral expression literature, particularly poetry, and it’s on the behalf of that muse that I sit down and write, has been for us, and I mean us in the human sense, all of us, something more than a creation we take in merely to enjoy or pass the time, whatever we say about it, whatever it truly is.  With it we behold creation itself, some small or large measure of this manifold enigma we call life, we call the world.  In a remoteness of seeing it magnifies our own deeply personal and startling world, personal because we live a dual life of inner and outer, but it is in that inner that we live, watching the outer as though it’s some tall stranger to whom we must respond as lovingly as if it were our own very self, startling because of all the passion that brightens through us, all the feelings that seem to have their fount in the deep and dim seat of creation itself, are a party to its immense and immeasurable unfolding, of all the thoughts that soundlessly speak through the corridors of our minds so intensely jumbled with a chaos of meaning, a chaos in which we reason out the order of our life.  Art does not simply try and make sense of this; it moves our own meaning a measure beyond.  It aims not at flattering our littleness, our crude perspectives and mean ways of looking.  It heightens seeing, challenges us, provokes us, and sometimes, even laughs at us, but if it is indeed art, it does this with a finesse and timeliness that can only come from an artist confronting a mirror. It is art, not religion, not science, not philosophy, not politics with which we move the world towards its destination, the play up, and it is only when these things are embodied by art (and by that I mean they are no longer their governing selves but have become backdrops for art) that they have the power to move it because art, unlike anything else that we behold, has the strength of passage to reach that intimate place in us wherein we keep our most treasured and heartfelt notions, and once in there to give some part or parcel of them a good going over, to which we cannot help but respond, be that in outrage or in awe.  Unlike the eye of the lot of us, the collective glare, art can open on anything without the least shudder or moral spasm.  Art, you see, has the eye of God.

It’s the pride of every age to think it’s at the advancing front of history, the highest peak of art and culture any age has yet climbed, or at least at some height where it looks down upon all the glory and grandeur of past ages as just stepping stones to the mature realness of its own, the age that matters, and if it does see a beyond it sees it in terms of the humanity of the day, dressed in those selfsame clothes.  Any age on the future, with its eye on the future, cannot see a fundamental high-reaching change in the human fabric, a rise on the inner nature.  It sees the future peopled by people no different in kind from the people of its own.  It envisions changes in outer wear: technological, environmental, political, social, and cultural changes.  No wide open eye there is on an inner change in humanity.  Our day is no different in these respects from past ages; only we are caught in the throes of a revolution in communication and availability of information that makes our day a day in court.  In our courtroom humanity is the defendant, Mother Nature and human nature the prosecution, survival the judge, and the possibility of a bright inner change in humanity the public defender, one we have yet to assign to our case.  I doubt many at this magnificent moment would agree with me, but it might be that the future (one that has arrived at some sight I might say) will not look upon ours as the bright forerunner of better ages, nor even to be better than any age before us, not in human terms at least.  Technology fools us into thinking we’re advanced, but by nature we are not largely different from people of old in the ways we react to things, in the ways we live, in the things we daily do.  They will see yet another ignorant age, but one in which human destiny was deliberated, or at least the one in which we first began to look upon ourselves as a world and not only as a nation or a people, and in that seeing begin to realize we can see ourselves as that or die.  Of course it goes without saying I see that we’ll see that.

A poet lifts up his head.

But it’s not my purpose here to be political.  I want to point out something, but before I bring my point home I’d like to provide another kind of search engine for the Internet, but one not as apparent as the ones you find online.  This engine is inside you, but we’ll have to do a background search first to get it to come in view.  The world is going online, and it’s not really looking at itself doing that, not, that is, with any depth of seeing.  For all the compiling bits of information that’s trying to sum it all up, all the blogs that are trying to speak it all out, all the web pages that tell us this or that, all the everything we can put on the world wide web trying to get a word in edgewise, we seem to be missing the point.  We are doing it just like we do everything else, by simply occupying it, filling in the space.  Of course many are talking about this virtual takeover, the incivility involved in the conquest, the anger, the hatred, but I want to say something about where this is taking our creative heights, something perhaps better said in a poem but it wouldn’t get any eye, and it’s what I’m pointing out as to why.  In all this going online art is being domesticated.

There’s no sitting room.
It’s time to take it to the field.
What sterilizes this tour is called forth grade avant-garde.
And most studies of alcohol dependencies…
We did the girls molested interactive art dialogue.
Your partner is bad men.
Can we get bigger than that?

There is one thing about life, its most seemingly fundamental aspect as a matter of fact, that even art rather tends to avoid being largely concerned with symmetry and form even when it’s trying to get around those – the messiness of life.  A case can be made that it’s the province particularly of poetry to measure this, given the nature of the verbal inner eye, and just look inside your head at your thoughts as they swirl around the world to see what I mean by that, but we’d lose focus.  Life is not only messy, full of the discombobulated, the out of sequence, the impossible to tell in any story in its rampant and confused completeness; it’s also quite dirty, scattered in every corner with little icky bits that we’d rather not tell anyone about or even really look at squarely ourselves, although we do spend a great deal of our life trying to clean these up or at least sweep them under the rug, especially when the lot of us gets a look at them.  Who does not have dirty little secrets that they whispered in life’s gutter ear, its cesspool of ill deed, at some point in the journey from the cradle to the grave?  Just look on the Internet.  I don’t think we yet truly understand the implications of having a world wide web when that we posting on it is as ignorant to the depth of life as we are.  Far from being a well of living water from which we can drink of the heights of the human heart and mind, accessible heights that can even teach our lows how to climb, what if you think about we’d like the Internet to be if it’s to become something more than just an easily accessible place where we can comfortably sell our wares (what’s taking the field), it’s threatening to become more a very virile and visible collective subconscious, chock-full of all the bile and bitterness, smut and self-righteousness, of our lower instincts.

Do you hear me Houston?
We do have a problem.
I gave a poet laugh.

We turn now to the artist, who is often on the margins: the nonconformist, the unorthodox, the rebel, the dissident, the heretic, the iconoclast, and in some cases, where there are perhaps no patrons other than art and immensity and the artist has no recourse but to bare soul to both, the outcast, but I’d have to add an amendment here: this spirit of an artist is becoming no so acceptable in today’s market, although its toned down or overly exaggerated imitation seems highly prized.  Whatever it is that makes and artist an artist, I think even with reluctance most would agree that it’s something more than just some genius of craft and technique.  Something there is that makes an artist look at the world and life and look so passionately there is no choice but to develop God-given abilities so to speak this, paint it out on the canvas of some craft.  It’s either that or explode.  That something, that impetus if you will, can often be found in life’s messy room, its dirty corner.  The biographies of a good many artists bear witness to this.  Of course you can be normal and be an artist, and there are many normal artists.  This has always been demanded of an artist by society, demanded of anybody, to be normal, but it’s the particular domain of artists to examine normality, poke it, prod it, and push it around, not only in their art but in their very lives, the former being a sublime public epiphany of the latter, as much as we’ve divorced, re-married, and divorced again these two figures in our commentaries on art.  But they sit together and look into the hourglass of immortality much deeper than a critique can readily see; they’re soul mates, a union as I see it from the perspective of a poet that my soul forms, which brings in a more fundamental union into the play between one’s art and life, that between soul and nature.  The more, I have found, that I’m able to write by my soul, the more nature herself gives it its rhythm and form.  What music would sound more natural and inevitable, what song more wild and free?

Is it crafted on unusual?
I say verse technique,
There the soul lay guesthouse,
A strange caller,
A Hercules.

Being that as such, that many artists are for the most part pushing the boundaries of what is considered normal and acceptable in a society, both in their art and in their lives, they can be quite questionable people by today’s standards.  (I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but we are becoming, even in the secular, rather puritanical).  In such a moral climate a good many artists, most especially those who are not politically correct, the artists who throw three sheets to the wind and challenge the status quo and craft change, wouldn’t be worth the risk to an art or literary journal with a sound reputation to uphold.  In the decision whether or not to give a piece of art the public eye, if we were to get in somehow into the sitting room of publishers and editors, in many cases it’s not the art that’s being declined; it’s the artist.  I’m sure there has been some spirit of this around art from the very beginning: those who publish or display art rejecting that art, whatever its mastery of expression and technique, from an artist of questionable moral or mental state, fringe or outlawed political affiliation, of heretical religious ideology or lack of religion, or, as I’ve seen to be a deciding factor in declining a poem or other verbal art in today’s Western literary journals, to have any faith at all not based on doubt in relation to God.  (Although the question seems out of place anywhere we put it, I can’t help but ask it here: why have we cloistered away today’s poetry in literary magazines and reviews if poetry is what we celebrate it to be, a spoken opening of our most aesthetic verbal eye?  You’d think it would be much more popular if the lot of us is as sophisticated as we imagine ourselves to be and if what we are creating and calling poetry today is indeed that.)  Unquestionably this blacklisting of artists has always been dogging art, but in the contemporary literary scene, because of the hypersensitivity in public morality making people so angry nowadays it’s a looming threat to anyone who dares question it, one that is largely coming about from this quite sudden and very personal public eye opening upon people in their dirty messy rooms the Internet enables, allowing also anyone with Internet access to investigate anybody that has any presence on the web, and most au courant artists do, I would venture to say that this today is taking literature, particularly poetry, back to an era when a religious authority jealously guarded its publication, on the watch to exclude any poem not in keeping with its paradigm or any poet not in line with its lifestyle, but here it’s not religion doing it or the state doing it in the name of religion (or a sociopolitical ideology as has been the case more recently), at least not now in the West, but the secular literary establishment itself.

Is this simultaneous submissions?
Who would guard favor?
Can you get your poet out?

I am not here granting a poetic license for immorality, advocating its carte blanche acceptance in society, although undoubtedly that would be the main criticism of this piece by the glaring collective eye.  I’d just like to point out that it’s with us and always has been, and our most usual way of dealing with it when it’s been uncovered by the lot of us, making a finger pointing spectacle of it that we parade in print and the airways across the public imagination, doesn’t help us deal with it and discover in it what there is to bring us beyond it, why people do evil things and how to have them stop, what the bad is here to teach the good so that both can get better.  Is born the artist.  Despite the art gospel of today that seems to have particularly gotten poetry by the horns, that art is simply there, fills no purpose other than to be appreciated, although it is expected, if it is indeed art, to move us, culture us, art for the longest time has been showing us the inside of life’s dark and shuttered rooms.  You would wonder if there is some purpose behind that.  Art has this habit of putting beauty there in the way it so stylishly opens its aesthetic eye upon it, and surrounded by such beauty in the midst of what to us has always been rather ugly, we are carried a measure beyond a simply moral view of things, looking at things strictly in terms of good and evil, black and white.  We are widened, and in that wideness can now see clearer to better deal with the moral issues that confront us.  This is not to become broad-minded for the sake of being cultured, or to live up to an ideal, or simply because we should.  I’m speaking in very practical and pressing terms; if we do not become so as a species we will not survive.

I’m not going to question.
Keep your nose clean.
I’ll put on the story you always want to hear.
Does this open all of us?

In this context, art, far from being a corrupter of our morals however much immorality it shows us, quite naturally and without us even knowing it, works evil out.  And I would add here that behind the art, however remotely, is an artist doing that, in regards to evil done or evil received, the art being a creative manifestation of that process made public, but I would also add that the most powerful art along these lines, that which takes the question of evil its farthest towards answering, sometimes even answering it, would be that created by an artist who has either done grave wrong or entertained the notion far stronger than what would be considered normal (by the times anyway).  The reason such art would be more compelling would become clear in the light of the ever-present need we have for self-understanding, greater even than our need to understand the world and its impact.  Of course art shows us a good many things other than the immoral room, as wide and multifarious as that room is, as universal as it is in the human subconscious, shows us anything possible for the human imagination to conceive, but in whatever art shows us it’s doing something to our imagination, something a bit magic, something to wonder at; it’s making it bigger at the same time it’s turning it in upon itself, and in all that expanding and contracting, like in the growth of a star or the making of a universe, we grow to what more is possible; we take a shine to the undiscovered.  Art puts us there, can take us anywhere, even to the end of evil, even farther a field than God.  That is why I say whatever we magnify with art can only be a backdrop to that act of creation itself.  Something there is bigger than even God, who is the ultimate measure of immensity for many of us.  That something beyond imagination artists are trying to measure, whether they know that or not, however large or small their measure.  In a manner of speaking, it could be said that God, in the sculpting and illustrating of all these worlds and universes and what is bigger than universes and bigger still, is himself an artist capturing on film what wonder this is that he’s seen.

What exactly do you want,
Like the name of a story?
It’s Universe
In our particular heritage sweepstakes.
You have to write it
One to three,
Make host positions clear.
We get bigger universes.
We outgrow that tide.
Now where we at?
Larger than Space.

Now the question now that I’ve made my point: what is an artist’s measure?  As might be clear by my describing it as something unimaginable (although that doesn’t mean we can’t try and conceive of it, which is in effect what an artist is trying to do), it isn’t the tangled flesh of life with all its robbed passion and squelched expression, nor the now upside down now right side up world trying to find a balance in immensity, nor even the artist’s ability or inability to untangle life from itself and right the world and show us this miracle or failed attempt, although in this last we’ve given lots of glory to an artist making the attempt, made immortal as a matter of fact, and put art in its place.  So to rhythm this angled ascent right I must mention my own art and say the measure in poetry.

It wouldn’t do prose.
If you know better:
What was I gonna do?
What’s that supposed to mean?
Your energy,
It’s a base-level reaction?
Somethin’ unsaid.
You’re on home plate.
Get struck out.
Hey, you’ve lost the ball.
The doctor,
This gonna cost bunch of money.
What are you trying to do?
Just poetry.
Lift your results.
Come quick for me
I only had One.
That’s such a common UFO.
This stopped how many people?
Get your beans together
And a number of years
You’ll be the lake house
Of where understanding takes a seat
Fly fishin’.
Did I bore yah?
Now, what you needed for an airplane.
Wait daddy,
Get my socks on.
Lay down alone in yourself.
Roll back inside.
Silence utter
Causes verbal.
Live in
That’s not such a jolt.
Go watch TV.
The last word:
Bear witness.

Catch the Wind

(a poem about Jason Russell of Invisible Children on the occasion of his reactionary psychosis after his Kony 2012 video went viral)

Useless lawyer waste of people
Mrs. Spring.
And they tease you.
Can you hold your hand out
With the world wind some
With the run of your life?
You turn away.
Your poetic form is finished.
Boring daddy
Hear you play their thoughts.
Go back to work.
I give up.
So much bigger than me.
You’re supposed to send it in.
Your country a track record
Gettin’ into our country.
You can say anything.
I’m not so sure about that.
No response.
I’m serious,
I need this.
Mass movement organization,
Experienced donations so far.
Star into city.
Can somebody give me a donation?
Fresh start,
I will always almost happen.
And you fold the world.

Anonymous, mysterious
(Let me get my glasses.
That’s strange.)
We talk to you
Earth activated.
Look at your gymnastics.
Wide horses,
It is good to see yah.
That’s right on
The movie
We Have a World in View.
Pardon me,
What does it mean to yah?
All of it sink in?
Tryin’ to explain to yah
A whole wide world
As much as you can
You don’t stop and think
How many are in movements.
All of that’s threatening you.
There remains something important
Over there
Would benefit your discovery program:
Hear what we think
All the time.
Find the key inside.
Have you been in bed before?
And you’re layin’ there in their scrap,
Who’ve you’ve crossed their minds.
Their hands
Definitely on this.
I’m talkin’ about
A mural
With all these signatures.
Well I bet you
Couldn’t handle the delivery.
I hand it of you
Tasted enemy.
It’s a systems failure.
Know what I mean?

A rising forward movement
In which hundreds connected with deep were slain.
You’re going to go to school,
Examine ideas,
If you let me
Give you something to do.
Sterling Abbot
Your wife’s concentration,
Another wife
You’re gonna live
In the very bones of yourself.
This is not flesh and blood.
It’s your waistcoat
Of ruling ideas
And guarding passions.
Get out;
I don’t want to.
Ruling passions can be difficult
I understand.
Play come on.
In making a very sharp objection
Present myself.
I’m a licensed teacher.
I’ll be conceiving of no reply.
Just a truthful father shooting.
I damage your report to everybody.
I throw it off.
I’m so bombard your home.
Even flying the hammer and sickle you find me.
I’m business news.
Man I’m sitting
Where you put your feet,
What you stand on.
There you are
In our rosebushes.
What you’re looking for
Is a door:
Can we just solve here?
You pick ole Major Warrant,
The simplicity minor that was just talkin’ to yah.
Not him.
Deny it –
Somethin’ eating everybody,
Runnin’ through a whole population.
All the locals come down with it.
They got manifestors runnin’ around.
Not everybody tweaks.
You’re no good:
Show some lime in everyone.
Shut the door.
The article
Won’t come out in your paper will it?
If it don’t
Your foolish pride
In front of

I’ll explain
That American.
Did Rock Hudson throw a popular fit outside or anything else?
Oops, you got mad at me.
You’re not gonna like this.
Go get your prize:
I’m the man;
That’s me on the spotlight.
Cut that burrito,
Spanish book,
America is beautiful
The same
War bond
In your hunted fugitive.
Almost everywhere
It’s the Earth;
It’s all mankind
Got the problem.
What’s the solution?
You put out fires for sure.
The arson
Don’t make a scapegoat.
Every arson
You make propaganda
Immune from hospital.
Is that the smartest thing to do?
How do you get
The manifestor
To come to terms?
Alienate him further
(Giving that launch infamy)
Increase his fuel,
That stuff inside him bombing children.
He needs to feel
The community.
Stick around:
Man that’s a good question
The community.
Look after One
Is this opera house,
Wire at the top.
Wire specialist
I’ll give him a hug.
We’re gonna go over there.
A very big
Change in identity
So we’re there.
That’s included.
The weathering ride to help,
That’s why you went,
Just to get something
(I’ve dropped this so many times it ain’t funny):
This is not a Buddhist sutra.
We’re lookin’ beyond escape.
This is just phase one.
There’s three.
How much room on spaceships?
The Earth we stay
Planetary and all grown up
If that keeps up:
Darn it,
I should could do better can’t I?
I’ve given you your healing song.
Happy birthday.

Gut, Wave, and Nerve Review

(A poem in response to Letter-poem to Grass: If We Go, Everyone Goes by Israeli poet Itamar Yaoz-Kest.)

He witness.
How are yah?
I’m hurting,
Claiming responsibility world said.
Can’t get out.
That’s her state-run TV.
To think captain
Come back to it
In a world filled with war.
All this mischief,
All this dustbin,
All this problem,
The fault of the neighbors.
We’re gonna annihilate the world
In an open letter to Samson.
There stand atonement?
I don’t understand.
A little more flavor from you
Of brother
And school.
You didn’t
Give a crossing for him.
Is he White?
He isn’t Jewish.
(An open parallel.)
What about that up here Nancy?
A White one
Grow by the principles
Grown from the elements
A Jewish state.
Her individual dawn
If I am a common thinker.

Now what do we do with Adam?
Exterminate further?
No that dead show.
Gimmie my flashlight.
(Illuminates the room.)
I’m not comin’ back.
Oh you’re not comin’ back?
You’re defenseless
(He was a real loud photographer.
Here I might be able to help him.)
In hold humanity,
The change I’m not really supposed to tell.
Then tell.
No matter who’s walking
They’ll have a right of crossing.
Change now ahead.
Consider it done.
There’s victory in there somewhere.

What are you talking about?
On the other hand,
Why don’t you shut your mouth?
Good idea,
Now I’m uncle on the floor
In a blue outfit.
Even spiritual
You’re gonna wanna beat me up.
I’m lensing
Right here:
The parentheses around Spirit will be taken off –
Spiritual victory.
We’ll all be in a different world.
We’re all livin’ in this one.
I just wanted you to see it
Through the lens
Of poetry’s nodule.
Not secular,
No religion.
Is he dead or alive?
No, this is not heaven.

At the rift.
Picket no longer.
Are you gonna tell me about this neighborhood?
Somebody last screamed it.
I ain’t exercisin’ no new restraints.
This is the only kind one of a people,
Superman’s brother,
A tough customer,
Earth activated.
Just think,
You’re part of it
Whole thing,
A full nelson,
And we got our full moon.
A camera
Analogy with pain
Put the broad on our feet,
The teacup
While our hairs are going down.

The world is so very small.
Put in our face
As you.
Touch it
To see where I’m going.
What do you take me for?
I’m not blaming you.
In that camera
Is our hopscotch item,
Toll we count.
Better than a machine gun.
Coming events
We take a peer at
In a nodule.
I’m fixin’ your plate,
Mine too by the looks of it.
Will you look at that?
Out of danger.
Before I forget,
God makes this perfect.
You take it home.
Good idea.

What Must Be Heard

Baghdad, Baghdad,
Whatever happened?
Leave me alone.
Could see you bigger
Than Standard Oil
And America’s stovepipe.
You are looking
Do battle
For your freedom.
Let me talk to yah.
Good morning,
How’d you get here?
Stole brother.
Is that your annex?
What have you done to history?
Today bombs,
That’s all I hear from you.
Where’s my case?
I’m not wearing that.
Can we recall some people
Blaming defense?
What scapegoat nation?
What unwarranted invasion?
Then textbook came:
Let’s travel all damn day.

He gives us hope.
I give –
The volleyball
Of change’s position.
I gotta go.
That’s the front line.
Here for a second.
Where’s Chandru?
He just isn’t splitting up.
He’s off to race some other battlefield.
Getting hit in the face,
How did it hurt?
It destroyed my ability to spring.
That’s too sad.
Like I said,
Said no we’re goin’
To get rid of your dictator
In advance of the early warning system.
This was not our doin’.
Now we start now
Get someone else to replace ‘im
Or somethin’.
It’ll knock the fire outta yah
A foreigner,
You do
That get rid of.

Isn’t there right around here?
That’s for the trash.
It’s close to here
The idea I have to police my neighbor.
What are you tryin’ to do?
Here’s the horses
That step in and bother us.
Knock it off.
Is it always a lonely game?
I don’t know check Hitler.
We didn’t perfume
His army hop.
We’re open
To receive an apology.
We’re open
To receive war reparations.
Take your hardware
Give us your shoulder
Health minister said.
You’re still alive?
Let’s hope so.

Boy you go into some heavy stuff.
I’m gonna get you fired.
A poet in India
Make for you
Somethin’ more than snub your nose.
I made a donkey;
I made an issue
Of your going after me:
Someone not in your pretty scheme of things.
What are people going to think?
Good night.
Your mother woke me up.
It’s ten thirty.
Lens we got here.
Isn’t that beautiful:
Mountain ranges,
You’re up.
That’s what I’m sayin’.
I’ll be seeing you.

Come Here

(published in The Counterpunch Newsletter)

They drain you.
They punish you.
Not everybody on the boat spoke English.
I dunno,
Everyone in the class was talking about it,
Your grandpa,
Close relative.
I’m a little deaf,
Don’t remember.
I told you:
Let them come.
It’s unbelievable,
At a time like this
On earth.
You know,
Bottle opener,
There’s hope.
Problem with you:
You have a long tradition.
I was just readin’ it.
Things are complicated,
Somewhere over there.

Actually your office is one of the best.
Bradford likes it.
Now here he stole:
I ask you,
Poor fellow,
The death of
It’s a book of evidence,
Definite bush,
Within the
‘Nurse driven’.
You can do it:
A revised book of art.
Gentlemen please,
Don’t you think?
Definitely leaves
Golden tree.
This is a nightmare
For loved ones
Your death struck.
Thank you.
It’s the only way
Continued ex-president
Extensive long arm –
I couldn’t see out the window
There were signs that said
Keep this
Speech art.
Help me out agriculture.
He’s my cousin.
A gun belt,
He’s not wearing one.
How does who whoever look?
Grab you
The novel of textbook.
It’s here you count oranges,
Your beautifully crafted diagrammed poem.
Hand him the clue.
Did you use my print conflict
There on the front survival?
Mohammad asking.
Pricilla Presley
Needed shaving cream she didn’t use.
Truth seeker,
We’ll come back to this.
I lost him.

I need a Sunday.
Come on,
A nuclear bomb
To those playin’ the game.
You know not that popular
You know what that means.
Kinda heavy
What do you guys
Think about the world?
Do you know what?
It’s stupid,
Our kind,
Our people,
All around the world.
The odd approach.
Almost everybody
Would like that.
We’re gonna make him.
Oh you make us?
Get out of here!
You can’t blame them.
Force them,
Leave a comment.
What is that sir?
All freewill,
You don’t find it in God.
Of course,
I wanna know about
The non-Muslims.
Your spiritual philosophy,
How goes that song?
Many things.
I’m just concerned
With who American
Not Muslim.
Does he wanna be,
And join us?
Conversations with a gathering bow.
Now that’s
Did you get that
Young man
Born a few Christians?
That’s what I’m telling you:
That’s human.

The truth is
You wouldn’t bother me with it.
Use a carpet
To understand its loveliness,
A plastic liner
To adapt to situations.
Oh you don’t?
There goes
Kenny does it,
Accepts you.
True religion
A spontaneous outpouring.
Not so concerned
With the parrot.
Nobody likes the
Grandma makes
Carrying the newspaper
To grandpa,
And she wants him
To cut the grass.
Yeah open it:
Change his girlfriend.
I’ll do it.
There are people
King of a version.
We’re gonna
Flip it,
See where it lands.
It hits on you.
You are the person
That makes
Your organ.
Find it here:
You’ve always known
You have some of that suitcase.
Okay, lock your door,
Give ‘im your privacy,
The inmost voice come in.
Coming down.
I was over things.
I was things over.
Stands up
Your soul
And tailor this to you.
You gotta go
Hear the tailor.
This is deeper than skin,
Than the world blows up,
Than a pocket full of aliens
Than you furnish gravity.
Put ‘em up.
What happened?
An earth change.
To do it
Funny and easy
Would that
Mean wide and flexible?
You’re quite right.

Tryin’ to cut up short on the internet.
Why did you come to America?
I thought this was about freedom.
Get ill-fired
Cause we meet the story.
What about the railroad?
Big pressure –
Could marry you.
I do an island.
Starrin’ ‘em
With lots of discrimination.
Here sir burn his milk.
In your face
For creatin’
Body and sense.
You have no business over here.
Lockin’ the door.
Guns without borders,
That’s hungry.
Of course
Someone might go with her
Causing the disturbance.
Is that America’s honor?
So much it’s pitiful.
How much more big power?
Find me the tree
Where all this is put to sleep.
Foot another reason.
Don’t do it.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Y’all get your act folder.
What about rising to weep
Hand custom made?
Alert the security council.
I love slow your uncle.
Whichever state you want.
I have a free wedge.
Quick to judge
Plagiarism is played
She does just fine by herself.
There’s a beer thirty miles up the road;
Would you get that?
What’s goin’ on?
Jim Crow legislation,
Even racial discrimination.

I’m doin’.
There we go.
It’s funny,
The file you’re watching
Got bulletin board by
A wind-maker,
Fire also,
Only seen as a deterrent to his society.
Where are you?
See how close you are,
You don’t have present conditions
Much longer.
You got about
My last day of troops.
Today wants to talk to yah:
Emergency overthrow
Honor boy.
The eyes of humility.
Definitely that one
Right now.
What are you starin’ at?
A bump in the road
Much bigger than any other.
I’ve got an account
In a civil service grassroots program.
Name us all.
You had a bad dream.
The nicest dream
That can be done
Walk this way:
Look at the face of the earth.
The volcano
Leads us to it.
Are you serious?
Where are you?
The bottom door.
I’m done.

Training Wheels

Ugly everything temporary.
He’s like a fashion model.
I’m not going anywhere.
Cut it off
The front line.
Don’t start everything right,
Here you know,
Not the pen and ink
Got married.
I’m so smart –
So short means:
I wanna put this in the incinerator
To eat.
Have spaghetti
No meat balls,
Fried shrimp,
One piece.
Let ‘im oar.
That’s how yah
Find out what matters,
Find out what happened.
Are you comin’ with me?
If you will hand it over.
My attention span
Not what it used to be.
I’m gunna help.
What do you say?
What are we waiting for?
Look who’s here,
Your thinking
Points of view.

There’s some new fish
Operating on the windows.
I’m a fish.
Don’t get angry.
It’s a trap:
That’s how much a subscription costs,
One fifth of your brain power.
Think you can do it,
Cover his adventures,
Use some coffee.
I thought I’d just hope for a second.
Very nice,
We certainly went out.
We did a little.
That’s it,
Pull the rabbit.
One more thing,
If you don’t hear from me
The government
Tackle it.
It just kills me.
Gotta go.

A poet in India read.
Why should we read?
Had the lipstick on
For a better future than what we have now.
Advanced search option,
You’ll be alright.
Did I know that guy?
How could he get here?
The net Jay jihad push,
It’s the horror.
Are you kidding me?
Check this out:
I got an idea
Blog worthy,
Put on social media.
We don’t want you to have that idea –
The police.
Do we
Stop this?
Now where’s conscience?
On the count of three roll over.
Why won’t anybody stick,
Stick their neck out?
I am the sound equipment.
Let’s hear it.
And another thing you’re watching.
Don’t you even dare
Say it.
Certain situations
Can’t include here you know.
Just gunna cap it off.
Why don’t you come over life?

Gets yah home.
It’s a long effort.
Don’t skip the reason please,
It’s messed up,
Head count.
Why don’t you leave me alone?
Thank you.
Would you like my toenail clippers?
End the poem.
Oh God.
What did he look like?
Did he look like …
Can we go?
Policeman, pow!
This available?
Wherever you read it.
Jason wasting my time in my tuition dream?
He’s coming into both of them,
Thirty seconds,
Eight hours,
Grand Theft Auto.
That’s the equipment leader.
They want to end the poem.

I’m just lookin’ for a
There’s too many of us,
Too many.
What are we going to do?
Give me that –
The product of the new government.
Who is he?
Go ask yourself.
Careful now,
I’ll bet
We’re under control:
Log in and register to post.
Who’s the new government?
That would be you.
The attention span,
Oh boy,
The pressure is ours.

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