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Category Archives: poetry

spaziodef-bianco

I can understand the haggar eyes

Of the old

Dry wrecks

Broken by seas of which they could drink nothing

 

20161015_173844

Outlined Epitaphs

8.

Yes, I am a thief of thoughts

not, I pray, a stealer of souls

I have built an’ rebuilt

upon what is waitin’

for the sand on the beaches

carves many castles

on what has been opened

before my time

a word, a tune, a story, a line

keys in the wind t’ unlock my mind

an’ t’ grant my closet thoughts backyard air

it is not of me t’ sit an’ ponder

wonderin’ an’ wastin’ time

thinkin’ of thoughts that haven’t been thunk

thinkin’ of dreams that haven’t been dreamt

an’ new ideas that haven’t been wrote

an’ new words t’ fit into rhyme

( if it rhymes, it rhymes

if it don’t, it don’t

if it comes, it comes

if it won’t, it won’t)

 

no I must react an’ spit fast

with weapons of words

wrapped in tunes

that’ve rolled through the simple years

teasin’ me t’ treat them right

t’ reshape them an’ restring them

t’ protect my own world

from the mouths of all those

who’d eat it

[…..]

 

a Mercedes’s engine

will take us

elsewhere in town,

Janis,

wound long hair

no longer crying

nervous fingers on scrim

scratched desires a blow

pocket and liquid

all our good expectations

for nothing

INTER & OUTER RHYME

Last night was the nightest

The moon full-mooned a starless space

Sure as snow beneath snow is whitest

Shall the god surface the human face

nor do I write about drops

and missing faces and ecoes and February storm

a castle is a castle

she told her tail

a castle downthere

on the white wall

she signed the picture

demure hands, a fortitude as well

let her not think to photos

and other pretty souvenirs

and money

they lay under clothes

hidden in the wardrobe

Past tense is so cute and nervous

so lonely the forget-me-nots

no angels danced within microcosms

on the upper floor a vacuum cleaner

and dish washing somewhere

overnight a lot of things

appear not enought and the time spent

looks like one-day flies

simply finitude

 

from outside the gallery

from outside the gallery

beautiful for the eve

all along dinners and delights

these  wings are pretty quick

out of the corner of one’s eye

holydays are lining up

the best yet

and poets will talk

about love and dust the last

doll#3

doll#3

coney island

coney island

 

 

Gill Scott-Heron, Running

Last Poets, Related to what

John Sinclair , Consequences

Lawrence Ferlinghetti with Dana Colley, I’m waiting

Ursula Rucker, Philadelphia child

The Books, It never changes to stop

 

“spiritual”

what is jazz, but spirituals

played thru saxophones

& trombones,

spirit voices

thru metal tubings

& the terrible repetition

of the formal premise, viz.

trance-like

at its best, or boring

when the spirit doth not move,

oh what is blues

but spirituals with a line

removed,

that is structurally,

& in content just a prayer

to the gods of daily life,

to ask the blessing

that the body of another

may lay warm in the bed

beside you at night, and the rent

be paid, and a meal

on the table, with the sheriff

far away

from the scene of the crime,oh

what is jazz but the registration

of the human personality

in relation to the spiritual,

stripped of literal meaning

but full of sound & portent,

direct as the voice of the gods

John Sinclair

THE REMAINS

I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.