Poetry on Writing

Writing for the Haul

All this writing is nonsense…
Just a fishing
Hoping to snag
The biggest catch
Or the smallest
One that’ll make profundity
Useless
That’ll set new records
For inanity
That’ll perch upon a wall
Eyeing us all
That’ll mark time
An annoyance
All this writing is nonsense…


Writing on the Walls

Connections rushing everywhere…
Whereupon time crushes connections
We soothsayers smooth not sooth
Soothsaying soothes no truth we
Desire not to hear, despite the message
Messengers relate what fear we desire
Lost to remain, whatever the cost
Accosting aside, Remaining lost
Wherever these then reside - connections -
Connecting whatever, however, wherever,
Our keep as keepers of sooth
Soothsaid enough shall keep our
Truths written, as in stone
Stonehenge gives starlit truths

I'm in Charge Here, so Allow me to give it to Myself Please?

Well, I thought, pleasantly, I'm in charge here…
I used to be so proud of how in charge of things
I actually was, that I'd charge admission
Just so's others wouldn’t fall into remission
Through missing my emissions…

See, I was so in charge, I thought nothing'd interfere,
Certainly no one'd dare try to take charge of things,
Not while I ruled the roost,
Not from me in my spruced
Up outfits - was I juiced!

It wasn't much longer, after another loud dress fear,
'Fore the gentlemen over there, took charge of things.
And had audacity to charge me admission
Just so's I couldn't leave and go in remission
From missing their emissions…

Now I don't mind much, having to adhere…
And pride rattles a cranium corner with things,
That seem like cocks at roost,
Amid rooms all down spruced,
I want me to be juiced!

[first stanza of] Greyhound and New York Grass
Oh, but Walt, you wrote – oh how you wrote,
When you wrote, writing where you wrote,
You wrote of Grass, of states, and of love you wrote,
Leaving some questioning why you wrote what you wrote
And then how to write like you wrote.
[excerpt from stanza seven]
Thither words turn sour, sourness stamps tongue,
Twisting lemony citrus squirts of other words,
Yet not uttered, the wordy future soured expositions lay resting,
For the moment silent, not born of saliva surrounding tongues,
Yet unborn from the spittle longing to launch them,