Death takes and takes
until what is left of memory
is the faint tracing of faded ash.
- mce
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Torshlusspanik
its report
sharp as
a rifle crack
the shot
that misses
this time
jangling the brain
with anxiety
for the bullet
next time
that will not
be heard
- mce
sharp as
a rifle crack
the shot
that misses
this time
jangling the brain
with anxiety
for the bullet
next time
that will not
be heard
- mce
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Still Life With Atrocity
this plain of death
corpse strewn
stone lonely
smashed objects
broken by
abstractions
what painted this scene?
decisions made
by ample men
in clean rooms
faraway
good reasons
bad intentions
abstractions
orders given
and followed
a soldier
slumps among
the bodies
abstractions
stained fatigues
silent rifle
dead eyes
wondering
how this happened
and who they were
and why
abstractions
no answers
boy, man,
executioner,
victims
abstractions
killer or killed
life will not
go on
- mce
corpse strewn
stone lonely
smashed objects
broken by
abstractions
what painted this scene?
decisions made
by ample men
in clean rooms
faraway
good reasons
bad intentions
abstractions
orders given
and followed
a soldier
slumps among
the bodies
abstractions
stained fatigues
silent rifle
dead eyes
wondering
how this happened
and who they were
and why
abstractions
no answers
boy, man,
executioner,
victims
abstractions
killer or killed
life will not
go on
- mce
The Brink Of Sanity
I hear rumors about
the miracle of the actual,
but can't get beyond
the brink of sanity.
- mce
the miracle of the actual,
but can't get beyond
the brink of sanity.
- mce
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Huck Finn Is Dead
Huck Finn is dead.
Some say
he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.
Some say
he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.
Some say
he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.
It does not matter
where or how;
only that
Huck Finn is dead,
and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.
- mce
Some say
he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.
Some say
he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.
Some say
he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.
It does not matter
where or how;
only that
Huck Finn is dead,
and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.
- mce
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Threesome
Once again I am
entangled
in a threesome
with Chaos and Doom.
Nothing sexy or new
about this trysting.
I have known them
since chopper nights
thick and dark
as blood fudge;
since divorce nights
of keening despair
and humbling rage;
since madhouse nights
of weirding drugs
and weeping angels;
since jail nights
of lonely screams
and obscene rants.
We go way back,
and here they are again
old, grim lovers,
demanding and deadly,
but oddly comfortable.
From morning until evening,
they smile and taunt
until night comes,
we snuggle up,
and I escape into dreams,
the only privacy
I own.
- mce
entangled
in a threesome
with Chaos and Doom.
Nothing sexy or new
about this trysting.
I have known them
since chopper nights
thick and dark
as blood fudge;
since divorce nights
of keening despair
and humbling rage;
since madhouse nights
of weirding drugs
and weeping angels;
since jail nights
of lonely screams
and obscene rants.
We go way back,
and here they are again
old, grim lovers,
demanding and deadly,
but oddly comfortable.
From morning until evening,
they smile and taunt
until night comes,
we snuggle up,
and I escape into dreams,
the only privacy
I own.
- mce
Flea Market Photos
who were these frozen people
the faces that smile or don't
outfits from the 40s, 50s, whenever
poses careful and formal
or anarchic and spontaneous
individuals, couples, groups
someone, somewhere, sometime
cared enough to snap their pictures
but left no words
now they are the faces of no one
motionless images of dead affection
blank histories a stranger can buy
for a quarter a piece
in this market of lost lives.
- mce
the faces that smile or don't
outfits from the 40s, 50s, whenever
poses careful and formal
or anarchic and spontaneous
individuals, couples, groups
someone, somewhere, sometime
cared enough to snap their pictures
but left no words
now they are the faces of no one
motionless images of dead affection
blank histories a stranger can buy
for a quarter a piece
in this market of lost lives.
- mce
Driving Me Crazy
Twelve hours a week
behind the wheel
of my ancient car
slogging between
two jobs.
And all of this
not to keep
body and soul
together,
just to keep them
in decent proximity.
Too many miles
for this old heart.
- mce
behind the wheel
of my ancient car
slogging between
two jobs.
And all of this
not to keep
body and soul
together,
just to keep them
in decent proximity.
Too many miles
for this old heart.
- mce
Motel Wall Concert
It begins with
nervous laughter,
creaking springs,
builds to
loud supplications
to Jesus and God,
ends in final
melting moans.
Funny how little
the notes vary;
more classical
than baroque;
more advertising
jingle than
hallelujah.
The simple sounds
of who we are,
where we come from,
what we do
to each other
played on mortal organs
by ardent amateurs,
overheard through
thin motel walls.
- mce
nervous laughter,
creaking springs,
builds to
loud supplications
to Jesus and God,
ends in final
melting moans.
Funny how little
the notes vary;
more classical
than baroque;
more advertising
jingle than
hallelujah.
The simple sounds
of who we are,
where we come from,
what we do
to each other
played on mortal organs
by ardent amateurs,
overheard through
thin motel walls.
- mce
Mostly
Mostly
the heart knows
the right thing
to do,
but doesn't.
Why should that
surprise anyone?
It's just
a stupid muscle
after all.
- mce
the heart knows
the right thing
to do,
but doesn't.
Why should that
surprise anyone?
It's just
a stupid muscle
after all.
- mce
Free Love - 1969
In retrospect, she was the time's type:
nothing special, really;
nice smile, a decent body,
the obligatory long hair,
almost pretty, but not quite,
seventeen and on her own,
willing to trade her body
for a place to crash, to get high,
maybe a little food.
Nothing personal about it.
I provided her three night's lodging.
She paid in full and moved on.
I can't remember her name.
Those were the sixties.
- mce
nothing special, really;
nice smile, a decent body,
the obligatory long hair,
almost pretty, but not quite,
seventeen and on her own,
willing to trade her body
for a place to crash, to get high,
maybe a little food.
Nothing personal about it.
I provided her three night's lodging.
She paid in full and moved on.
I can't remember her name.
Those were the sixties.
- mce
The Whiskey Bottle Is Empty
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Now there is a sufficiently
sad sentence. Succinct, too.
It speaks a grave-side quiet,
as when emptiness is all.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Five words leading only
to a garbage can.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
The simple, declarative
syntax of nothing.
- mce
Now there is a sufficiently
sad sentence. Succinct, too.
It speaks a grave-side quiet,
as when emptiness is all.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Five words leading only
to a garbage can.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
The simple, declarative
syntax of nothing.
- mce
Trickster
It is hard
to make poetry
out of nothing.
Out of empty rooms
chilly at dawn;
out of a solitary bed;
out of bad food,
poorly prepared,
eaten alone;
out of jobs done
only for the money,
not the work;
out of dead memories
of family and love;
out of no expectations;
out of life's end time.
It is hard
to make poetry
out of nothing,
but I just did.
- mce
to make poetry
out of nothing.
Out of empty rooms
chilly at dawn;
out of a solitary bed;
out of bad food,
poorly prepared,
eaten alone;
out of jobs done
only for the money,
not the work;
out of dead memories
of family and love;
out of no expectations;
out of life's end time.
It is hard
to make poetry
out of nothing,
but I just did.
- mce
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Heavenly Encounter
I ran into an Angel
at the cafe this morning.
He looked shabby and sad
as he told me that
he has been unemployed
and at loose ends
since God died.
The stimulus package
hadn't helped
and there was
no unemployment
compensation
available for
the formerly Divine.
I commiserated,
agreed that times
are tough all over,
and paid for his latte.
It seemed the least
I could do.
- mce
at the cafe this morning.
He looked shabby and sad
as he told me that
he has been unemployed
and at loose ends
since God died.
The stimulus package
hadn't helped
and there was
no unemployment
compensation
available for
the formerly Divine.
I commiserated,
agreed that times
are tough all over,
and paid for his latte.
It seemed the least
I could do.
- mce
New Roommate
One morning he found that age
had arrived and moved in to stay
like some unwelcome relative
whose existence he had always doubted.
Suddenly, the past retreated into
a vast, unimaginable distance
and youth became someone else.
Even midlife was a stranger.
Old things began to happen:
his wife had a new husband and life;
his grown children had futures
and didn't come around much;
the news became frustratingly familiar;
sex devolved into ritual;
the best cats were all dead
like more of his friends each year.
He woke for good at four AM
after thin, elderly sleep
and spent the early hours
with bourbon, coffee,
cigarettes and jazz.
Age just smiled, had another drink,
and made no move to leave.
- mce
had arrived and moved in to stay
like some unwelcome relative
whose existence he had always doubted.
Suddenly, the past retreated into
a vast, unimaginable distance
and youth became someone else.
Even midlife was a stranger.
Old things began to happen:
his wife had a new husband and life;
his grown children had futures
and didn't come around much;
the news became frustratingly familiar;
sex devolved into ritual;
the best cats were all dead
like more of his friends each year.
He woke for good at four AM
after thin, elderly sleep
and spent the early hours
with bourbon, coffee,
cigarettes and jazz.
Age just smiled, had another drink,
and made no move to leave.
- mce
American Dream Delusion
There is no luck,
only hard work and skill.
You roll the dice
and win once
then commence to lose.
The croupier smiles
like an inevitable corpse
and hauls in your loses,
but you are tenacious
and put no stock in fate.
You keep betting
and begin to win
and keep winning
until his fringed pate
explodes dollars
and everything you desire
is yours.
- mce
only hard work and skill.
You roll the dice
and win once
then commence to lose.
The croupier smiles
like an inevitable corpse
and hauls in your loses,
but you are tenacious
and put no stock in fate.
You keep betting
and begin to win
and keep winning
until his fringed pate
explodes dollars
and everything you desire
is yours.
- mce
Integrity
When life offers up
the inevitable two choices,
say fuck you,
invent a third,
and make it your own.
- mce
the inevitable two choices,
say fuck you,
invent a third,
and make it your own.
- mce
A Matter Of Scale
I prefer to live in small spaces.
They make me feel larger and more important
than just a sad, lonely old man
who chants poems to candles and cats.
- mce
They make me feel larger and more important
than just a sad, lonely old man
who chants poems to candles and cats.
- mce
Salvation - So Far
Every time
I have considered
suicide,
someone has
told me a story
so sad
I felt happy
to be alive.
- mce
I have considered
suicide,
someone has
told me a story
so sad
I felt happy
to be alive.
- mce
Dada Collage #11
The days piled up too high and then collapsed.
Everything was sadder than it used to be.
What we are concerned with here is unhappiness.
It is not a question of enlightenment, but recognition,
that chameleon of vapid, disinterested change.
What does it all come down to in the end?
Feeling furtive needs isn't living;
you weary of feeding your needy, mammal body.
We must extricate ourselves from this repugnant spectacle.
The gates of the world open and close to no end.
The cosmos uses your own voice to complain.
The summit sings what is spoken in the depths.
The boulevards of your brain become smaller.
The wars are far away and oddly peaceful.
The lamps we light at dusk are for nothing.
I found this poem in the flea market of old words,
paid for it with the sorry shards of my memories,
and offer it to oblivion with whatever else I have stolen.
Consider it a final toast to everything that didn't happen.
- mce
Everything was sadder than it used to be.
What we are concerned with here is unhappiness.
It is not a question of enlightenment, but recognition,
that chameleon of vapid, disinterested change.
What does it all come down to in the end?
Feeling furtive needs isn't living;
you weary of feeding your needy, mammal body.
We must extricate ourselves from this repugnant spectacle.
The gates of the world open and close to no end.
The cosmos uses your own voice to complain.
The summit sings what is spoken in the depths.
The boulevards of your brain become smaller.
The wars are far away and oddly peaceful.
The lamps we light at dusk are for nothing.
I found this poem in the flea market of old words,
paid for it with the sorry shards of my memories,
and offer it to oblivion with whatever else I have stolen.
Consider it a final toast to everything that didn't happen.
- mce
What Is - What Isn't
The poem is not
the words on the page.
The poem is not
reading those words.
The poem is
what resonates
and lingers
in the mind's silence
just after.
- mce
the words on the page.
The poem is not
reading those words.
The poem is
what resonates
and lingers
in the mind's silence
just after.
- mce
Paid In Full
I wrote a poem on the back
of an overdue electric bill.
It was a good poem.
Certainly that makes us even.
- mce
of an overdue electric bill.
It was a good poem.
Certainly that makes us even.
- mce
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
The Artist
He sits fixedly knitting the air.
Although nothing takes shape,
it does so palpably.
He works with such fierce concentration,
never dropping a stitch,
that the very nothing he is knitting
assumes all the aspects of creation,
except for form and substance.
People marvel at its complexity,
its craft and connivance.
He merely continues his work.
The ferocity of the undertaking
engenders its own reward.
Art may be a delusion plied by lunatics,
but the world doesn't know that,
and the lunatics don't care.
- mce
Although nothing takes shape,
it does so palpably.
He works with such fierce concentration,
never dropping a stitch,
that the very nothing he is knitting
assumes all the aspects of creation,
except for form and substance.
People marvel at its complexity,
its craft and connivance.
He merely continues his work.
The ferocity of the undertaking
engenders its own reward.
Art may be a delusion plied by lunatics,
but the world doesn't know that,
and the lunatics don't care.
- mce
Politics
If you must
participate,
you might
want to
boil
the air
before you
enter and
breathe it.
- mce
participate,
you might
want to
boil
the air
before you
enter and
breathe it.
- mce
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Rented Rooms
No matter the decoration,
they remain bleak as Antarctica,
empty as the Sahara.
Stuff will not suffice;
bric-a-brac remains invisible.
Even the best music merely echoes:
Mozart, Vivaldi, even Beethoven
cannot fill the emptiness.
Clocks clang like church bells
and every muted footfall
screams out loneliness.
They are places to pass through
where you reside but do not live.
Even the most asinine Realtor
couldn't call them home
with a straight face.
They are the shelter for those
who have not quite descended
to the bridge abutment.
They are where you wake up
alone into loneliness
and pretend each morning
you are still alive.
They are the difference
between survival and life,
breath and inspiration.
They are the preordained
end of the game
you were forced to play
and doomed to lose.
We each get but one home
and if by folly or disaster
we destroy it,
wherever we go
we remain homeless
in the wilderness
of rented rooms.
- mce
they remain bleak as Antarctica,
empty as the Sahara.
Stuff will not suffice;
bric-a-brac remains invisible.
Even the best music merely echoes:
Mozart, Vivaldi, even Beethoven
cannot fill the emptiness.
Clocks clang like church bells
and every muted footfall
screams out loneliness.
They are places to pass through
where you reside but do not live.
Even the most asinine Realtor
couldn't call them home
with a straight face.
They are the shelter for those
who have not quite descended
to the bridge abutment.
They are where you wake up
alone into loneliness
and pretend each morning
you are still alive.
They are the difference
between survival and life,
breath and inspiration.
They are the preordained
end of the game
you were forced to play
and doomed to lose.
We each get but one home
and if by folly or disaster
we destroy it,
wherever we go
we remain homeless
in the wilderness
of rented rooms.
- mce
Manic-Depression
OK, the depressive part
can be a problem:
nothing to do but lie around,
immobile, counting ceiling tiles,
waiting to die, and afraid you won't.
But mania! Oh sweet muse!
The gods kiss you with fiery tongues;
they burn their hissing brands
into your gelid, grateful brain.
Volcanoes of metaphors;
tsunamis of words;
earthquakes of images.
Every moment pulsates;
every instant an orgasm.
Shrinks agree that
most artists are
manic-depressive
to some degree,
but to us it is a portal
to the godhead.
Give the meds to the rest;
the agitated, anxious sheeple
striving to be normal:
to them it is a disease.
But for those of us
who lust for Art,
it is the necessary,
not to be missed,
divine, exalted,
madness of creativity.
Consummate
Promethean
benefaction.
- mce
can be a problem:
nothing to do but lie around,
immobile, counting ceiling tiles,
waiting to die, and afraid you won't.
But mania! Oh sweet muse!
The gods kiss you with fiery tongues;
they burn their hissing brands
into your gelid, grateful brain.
Volcanoes of metaphors;
tsunamis of words;
earthquakes of images.
Every moment pulsates;
every instant an orgasm.
Shrinks agree that
most artists are
manic-depressive
to some degree,
but to us it is a portal
to the godhead.
Give the meds to the rest;
the agitated, anxious sheeple
striving to be normal:
to them it is a disease.
But for those of us
who lust for Art,
it is the necessary,
not to be missed,
divine, exalted,
madness of creativity.
Consummate
Promethean
benefaction.
- mce
Friday, March 30, 2012
Dada Collage #10
in
the end there is a start.
It
is hardly difficult to argue
that
this is no time for the fatuous
and
that nothing is more fatuous
than
scribbling poetry at dawn.
But
compulsion and desire will out.
We
must sing of this world
not
some better unknown star.
The
given is the wool we weave.
All
times are equally terrible
and
equally sublime.
The
eternal politics of horror
must
never stifle the human heart.
Which serves to make clear
that
- mce
Dada Collage #9
My
cat Evan knows nothing of war
or
famine or pestilence or blood.
Bravo
to his ignorance of ideology!
He
cares nothing for torn soldiers,
starving
children, the Ebola virus,
or
oozing traumatic amputations.
He
sits solemnly on the recliner
listening
to John Coltrane
thinking
only tranquil cat thoughts,
imagining
nothing more disturbing
than
kibble and another day of naps.
He
does not need to consider himself.
He
is himself - a sleek, gray
untutored
genius of silence:
the only true Buddha I've
ever met.
- mce
Dada Collage #8
Oh
mourning morning when lost life looms large.
I
write to exalt you alone:
the
desire for all that we have ceased to be.
The
wasn't and might have been
are
enormous French tapeworms
devouring
the now and is.
Still,
you grow weary of the ancient world at last.
One
can only live so long amid ruins.
Finally,
the dawn must break like a heart
and
the new day claim reality.
The
daily dance of deception continues.
Pathei mathos. How to sever the
circle?
- mce
Dada Collage #7
He
refuses the amputated life,
the
ghost limb of being.
The
flesh must be felt in the flesh.
Silicon
brains cannot know compassion.
We
must make room for discovery.
Only
uncertainty is soothing.
The
sarcastic mockers
have
created little men
and
made a fine living off their misery.
If
we are to live we must find
the
neurons that fire love.
Mutual
separation leads only
to
muddy trenches, unholy camps,
and lonely graves
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Dada Collage #6
You'll depart when you feel like it:
goddesses do not adhere to timetables.
Your body is so lovely
it scares away sharks.
Why should it fear time?
Your grace comes from deep caverns.
The tocks of clocks mean nothing more
to you than the creaking on weary stairs.
You leave no footprints as you glide the beach.
Millennium would not allow
half enough moments to describe
the tiny eternity
of your arms around me.
You arrived in a dream and
you'll depart when you feel like it.
- mce
goddesses do not adhere to timetables.
Your body is so lovely
it scares away sharks.
Why should it fear time?
Your grace comes from deep caverns.
The tocks of clocks mean nothing more
to you than the creaking on weary stairs.
You leave no footprints as you glide the beach.
Millennium would not allow
half enough moments to describe
the tiny eternity
of your arms around me.
You arrived in a dream and
you'll depart when you feel like it.
- mce
Dada Collage #5
People misunderstand
when I talk with my mouth,
so I have decided
to speak with my feet.
Nature is orderly;
words apparently not.
Watch my toes
if you wish to comprehend me.
The feet of morning;
the feet of midday;
and the feet of night
speak different languages.
This is not my fault.
You must make the effort
to learn them.
When you do, our souls
will be in perfect harmony
like two lamprey
that fuck then die.
- mce
when I talk with my mouth,
so I have decided
to speak with my feet.
Nature is orderly;
words apparently not.
Watch my toes
if you wish to comprehend me.
The feet of morning;
the feet of midday;
and the feet of night
speak different languages.
This is not my fault.
You must make the effort
to learn them.
When you do, our souls
will be in perfect harmony
like two lamprey
that fuck then die.
- mce
Dada Collage #4
Must I sleep much longer?
Must I sin so dispassionately?
Shall I find an open portal
and leap and splatter?
All of the roads seem sinister
and dogs wag their tails but snarl.
Beneath a dead Elm I witnessed
an Angel weeping and murmuring.
His tears were pearls; his sighs prayers.
A hag with nipples like needles
beckoned to me from near a ruined wall.
I no longer possess an erotic appetite.
Instead, I am gnawing at the sinews of time
which taste bitter as death and bland as chicken.
My brain is a luminous, transparent sponge.
Dare to take a look inside.
I wish to wake in a solid world,
but who heeds my wishes?
Perhaps I must sleep forever.
- mce
Must I sin so dispassionately?
Shall I find an open portal
and leap and splatter?
All of the roads seem sinister
and dogs wag their tails but snarl.
Beneath a dead Elm I witnessed
an Angel weeping and murmuring.
His tears were pearls; his sighs prayers.
A hag with nipples like needles
beckoned to me from near a ruined wall.
I no longer possess an erotic appetite.
Instead, I am gnawing at the sinews of time
which taste bitter as death and bland as chicken.
My brain is a luminous, transparent sponge.
Dare to take a look inside.
I wish to wake in a solid world,
but who heeds my wishes?
Perhaps I must sleep forever.
- mce
Dada Collage #3
Yesterday it was night all day.
I wandered the streets naked, sweating,
throwing rocks at the moon.
I recognized a stranger who was myself.
I had nothing to say to him.
Indifference is easier in the dark.
Anyway, I'm just an anonymous passerby.
Nothing, not even the trees,
has cause to fear me.
- mce
I wandered the streets naked, sweating,
throwing rocks at the moon.
I recognized a stranger who was myself.
I had nothing to say to him.
Indifference is easier in the dark.
Anyway, I'm just an anonymous passerby.
Nothing, not even the trees,
has cause to fear me.
- mce
Dada Collage #2
Music emerges from the windows:
piercing sighs, voracious lips,
precocious laughter, naivety.
Life flits through the thoughts
of the gray haired poet.
Bizarre violent milk
bubbles up from the depths of heaven
and we complacent observers
can also see the stars sinking
from our exhausting dreams.
Minor chords fade to memories.
The lowing cattle expire.
The music continues
exactly as before.
- mce
piercing sighs, voracious lips,
precocious laughter, naivety.
Life flits through the thoughts
of the gray haired poet.
Bizarre violent milk
bubbles up from the depths of heaven
and we complacent observers
can also see the stars sinking
from our exhausting dreams.
Minor chords fade to memories.
The lowing cattle expire.
The music continues
exactly as before.
- mce
Monday, March 26, 2012
Illumination
Once his eyes adjusted
to the light,
he realized he was blind
and colors gushed forth
from his heart:
never before had he seen
so vividly.
- mce
to the light,
he realized he was blind
and colors gushed forth
from his heart:
never before had he seen
so vividly.
- mce
Dada Collage #1
I am riding in a train that is absolutely packed.
Up in the sky big ships send out smoke
and on earth tonight a man is writing.
Learn to sing without ever worrying.
There is a precise moment in time
when a man reaches the exact center of his life.
Now is the time for kisses to comprehend
madmen and passions.
At last I have the right to say hello
to all these beings I do not know.
Sitting right beside me you were crying
in the dark depths of the old fashioned carriage.
If only you knew.
Even the dogs feel awful.
- mce
Up in the sky big ships send out smoke
and on earth tonight a man is writing.
Learn to sing without ever worrying.
There is a precise moment in time
when a man reaches the exact center of his life.
Now is the time for kisses to comprehend
madmen and passions.
At last I have the right to say hello
to all these beings I do not know.
Sitting right beside me you were crying
in the dark depths of the old fashioned carriage.
If only you knew.
Even the dogs feel awful.
- mce
Friday, March 23, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Circle of Memory
He's sitting in
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.
The parting of
your lovely knees;
the glistening
of your lips;
the way your breasts
reached out for him;
the lilting of your hips.
The time of lust
has drained away,
there's little
left to trust.
He's sitting in
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.
-mce
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.
The parting of
your lovely knees;
the glistening
of your lips;
the way your breasts
reached out for him;
the lilting of your hips.
The time of lust
has drained away,
there's little
left to trust.
He's sitting in
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.
-mce
Lonely and Cold
Love is cold folly for the old.
The skeleton of habit no longer bends.
The confines of rooms admit no alteration.
Old poets seek solace in crazy places
that brook cats, but not strangers.
Words become prison windows
that serve to bar the fading light.
Sex is reduced to the retelling
of boring, weary stories
or mechanically repetitive rumblings.
Love is folly for the old,
folly pointless, lone, and cold.
- mce
The skeleton of habit no longer bends.
The confines of rooms admit no alteration.
Old poets seek solace in crazy places
that brook cats, but not strangers.
Words become prison windows
that serve to bar the fading light.
Sex is reduced to the retelling
of boring, weary stories
or mechanically repetitive rumblings.
Love is folly for the old,
folly pointless, lone, and cold.
- mce
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Devouring The Devourers
~ menu fixe for Chez Revanche
Anxious Anaconda Antipasto.
Mega Shark Soup.
Grinning Crocodile Fillets.
Prodigious Python Pie.
All served up like revenge,
appropriately cold.
Presentation is everything.
Tuck in, before they do.
_ mce
Anxious Anaconda Antipasto.
Mega Shark Soup.
Grinning Crocodile Fillets.
Prodigious Python Pie.
All served up like revenge,
appropriately cold.
Presentation is everything.
Tuck in, before they do.
_ mce
Perfection
~ for William Carlos Williams
The perfection of that
fucking red wheel barrow
that caused such grief;
those damned white chickens
that brought no relief.
How many readers foundered
upon these images?
How many would be poets
took to truck driving
and went completely daft?
- mce
The perfection of that
fucking red wheel barrow
that caused such grief;
those damned white chickens
that brought no relief.
How many readers foundered
upon these images?
How many would be poets
took to truck driving
and went completely daft?
- mce
Words Poets Ought Avoid After Sixty
Alcohol, for it has done its duty.
Future, for what remains is anemic.
Past, for it is already where it belongs.
Hope, for there is no longer time to learn Greek or conquer Everest.
War, for there is nothing more to say.
Cemetery, for it overflows with friends and lovers.
Body, for it doesn't take orders and runs to fat and rigidity.
Money, for it has proven its worth and amounted to nothing.
Love, for it belongs in the vocabulary of youth.
Justice, for it is not a feature of this life.
Death, for it shall arrive soon enough.
And so many more.
What blazes at thirty is best forgotten and interred at sixty.
Dictionaries shrink and thesauri shrivel to essential bone.
Resignation displaces inspiration as it ought.
Poetry devolves into abstract thought.
Let us wear our lives like worn out clothes,
draped on the thorn of the wilted rose.
- mce
Future, for what remains is anemic.
Past, for it is already where it belongs.
Hope, for there is no longer time to learn Greek or conquer Everest.
War, for there is nothing more to say.
Cemetery, for it overflows with friends and lovers.
Body, for it doesn't take orders and runs to fat and rigidity.
Money, for it has proven its worth and amounted to nothing.
Love, for it belongs in the vocabulary of youth.
Justice, for it is not a feature of this life.
Death, for it shall arrive soon enough.
And so many more.
What blazes at thirty is best forgotten and interred at sixty.
Dictionaries shrink and thesauri shrivel to essential bone.
Resignation displaces inspiration as it ought.
Poetry devolves into abstract thought.
Let us wear our lives like worn out clothes,
draped on the thorn of the wilted rose.
- mce
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Value Of Stuff
These former treasures
now transformed into
anonymous junk.
Where did their history flee?
I stroll this flea market
with 10 dollars and no plan.
How many lives held these items?
Like mute Zen Masters
each has found its original face;
the desire that attached them
to life has evaporated.
They are only sad things in boxes
waiting for new hands
holding disinterested dimes,
seeking meaningless curiousities
to gather dust on lonely shelves.
This is what stuff comes to.
- mce
now transformed into
anonymous junk.
Where did their history flee?
I stroll this flea market
with 10 dollars and no plan.
How many lives held these items?
Like mute Zen Masters
each has found its original face;
the desire that attached them
to life has evaporated.
They are only sad things in boxes
waiting for new hands
holding disinterested dimes,
seeking meaningless curiousities
to gather dust on lonely shelves.
This is what stuff comes to.
- mce
Metamorphosis
~ for FK
He fell asleep a defunct and uncertain mortal,
but in that night of wavering visions
he dreamed of crocodiles and lilacs
each blossoming according to its own nature.
That made a sort of sense.
Telephones rang and creditors questioned.
Fishermen returned from the sea with boats full of water
which they easily traded for vast quantities of oxygen.
The crocodiles were fragrant and the lilacs smiled.
That, too, made a sort of sense.
One melancholy action flung itself upon the stars
and vanished from the satisfied earth.
He loved God and Satan simultaneously
and in their delight they reopened the Garden
feeling once more the necessity of affection
and directed him to eat his fill.
Who can argue with such divine logic?
All his ex-lovers sent telegrams expressing regret.
The gold he never had swelled his coffers.
He decided this dream was too lovely to end.
And yet, how to make sense of this gloaming cornucopia?
The answer struck him obvious as an earthquake:
forget the prisons of words; take new orders;
laugh with the crocodiles; dance with the lilacs;
become a man of action; imbibe Ambrosia for breakfast;
devour Manna for lunch; shit astonishing flowers.
This makes perfect sense.
- mce
He fell asleep a defunct and uncertain mortal,
but in that night of wavering visions
he dreamed of crocodiles and lilacs
each blossoming according to its own nature.
That made a sort of sense.
Telephones rang and creditors questioned.
Fishermen returned from the sea with boats full of water
which they easily traded for vast quantities of oxygen.
The crocodiles were fragrant and the lilacs smiled.
That, too, made a sort of sense.
One melancholy action flung itself upon the stars
and vanished from the satisfied earth.
He loved God and Satan simultaneously
and in their delight they reopened the Garden
feeling once more the necessity of affection
and directed him to eat his fill.
Who can argue with such divine logic?
All his ex-lovers sent telegrams expressing regret.
The gold he never had swelled his coffers.
He decided this dream was too lovely to end.
And yet, how to make sense of this gloaming cornucopia?
The answer struck him obvious as an earthquake:
forget the prisons of words; take new orders;
laugh with the crocodiles; dance with the lilacs;
become a man of action; imbibe Ambrosia for breakfast;
devour Manna for lunch; shit astonishing flowers.
This makes perfect sense.
- mce
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