Poetry

Oh world! (blah). Poets! What have you become? 
  
Directionless without Bréton´s authority 
Obscure like early Rimbaud 
museum pieces in the attic 
trapped on this plane, marking revolutions 
from bored jaded middle-classes. 
Alone on a stage with Kevin McCameron 
with no one to listen  or 
pass us by. 
              Western destruction imminent and passé. 
It is only best to speak in love poems 
sonnets, and prose of sweet rememberance. 
  
The sun sears asphalt on stop-and-go traffic. 
The heat smells not all different from colors 
in crowds of faces too unhealthy and beaten 
to see all the beautiful things just outside 
their frames of mind; characters only spoken to 
in old books and ideologies. 
  
The Meaning of life: 
To catch a glimpse of the waitress pretending not to notice 
the table full of torn notebook pages during happy hour, 
but you notice her 
                    and she held your hand in meditations 
that very morning. 
  
To teeter on the edge of obscurity because not all hope 
has yet been lost.  The universe exists in infinite space. 
The Bodhisvatta has a pleasant smile, straddling the body 
like a dripping wet sweatty naked woman in a blanket, 
the fourth dimension hidden by the other three 
  
length height volume. 
  
  
  
Poetry has done nothing for me. 
War made me fast and violent, 
          bloodied my knuckes with blistering cigarette burns. 
Death made me a man without dreams of 
towering cities over lakes and rivers. 
Spain made me human, fascinated by 
unscripted lives that moved still with time 
lacking purpose.    Priya taught me love 
risk and heartbreak.  To love is always best, 
To love unconditionally is always better. 
  
God taught me to never give in to astonishment, 
to understand what is directly in front, but 
can never be seen.   
                    Everything that has been written 
or will be written has already been written. 
Fear is control, Fearlessness is freedom 
We are only theater, extras trying to remember 
what it is that we´ve already heard.