Monday, February 14, 2011

266. GiVe, SaTe

than we could ever be straight

the word for it
is “it”
(I honestly
you would know)

you would’ve known that
if you’d been paying attention
instead of standing at

the word for this
is not “known”

I would extrapolate
if I could first learn
to polate properly

it’s not that I’m telling jokes
it’s that jokes are infecting me
(or, possibly, infesting)

the difference between
the right word
and the left word
is that the right word
is used

I took up the flute at a young age
but it was only because
of my interest in champagne

as I recall, though it was
many years ago, she was
dearly departed, which
I think means we were
happy for us if not her

turning away

they came for the companionship
but stayed for the guacamole

you might remember it
it had something to do with
with that in mind you might
might you consider how
how would you ever decide
decide for now or don’t
don’t ever stop being who you are
are you the one they speak of?

unable to recall if I
had a number of questions
or a question about numbers

Wow or woe

& I can’t tell which

I explained it carefully
so you wouldn’t understand it

Don’t ask me, really, if this
is a poem. At some level, I
just don’t care. My game is
not poetry, though I say it
is. My attempts are simply
to create with words or the
things that exist within the
penumbra of words (things
like letters and sounds or
the approximations of these)

I didn’t expect to write you this

I didn’t expect to write you

I didn’t expect to write

I didn’t expect to

I didn’t expect

I didn’t

I really did not

It’s just that I find myself
stuck within a pattern of
making things and what
I do with this is sometimes
as much a surprise to you
as it is to me, believe me

you will make some sense of this
or maybe
you will not
but still
there will be sense here
even if crushed by playfulness
or crippled by incompetence
for I write for the ear of flight
and the architectural eye
and the heart and the mind of being

set your course
and keep you moving forward
and through the making of words
we never make but only put back
in order, in order to find the sense
we always had within us but
could never see or hear or feel?

there might be love in you
or hate
there might be an uncertain sense
that you might have something to say
(so you write it down)
but it’s the words speaking
or a smooth cognac that reminds us of evening stretching out into night
and we are but


of air
of light
of cognac
of thinking
of words

we hold in place until the time to set them free

Oh, and happy birthday.

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