Be merry! Poetry is a special interest of mine both for its heightened ambiguity and for that unmitigatedly diffused power in hyperdimensional directions it creates. When we “have” to be direct, that is kind of like holding a burning wooden chair to smoke-write our meanings and intents in the air. But when we poetize, we ride an electric blade on two wheels out of the dark. I like the indirect blade — in the same way as I relish the ideal indirect motorbike: wholly electric-powered, wholly black, coming out of the shadows at you —
silent. So silent.
Plus I can learn what I intend and mean from my own words, something I have a hard time doing when I’m “subbing” words into others’ minds.
A Blade In The Future
- I see a blade in the future
- Gifts, parades, betrayals — designs
- There is a hitch in the one’s murmur
- Swords, paintings, polaroids — minds
- I hear a bell in the distance
- Remarks made, like droplets of water
- This meat is not whole, but minced
- The pan of the trap is getting hotter
- I am one who is being dependent upon
- Mirages, songs, songstresses — Orion
- “In a nuclear dawn,” sang Moxy, “drunk on the lawn.”
- 1990, 1991, 1992 — Year of the Lion
- In 1993, I was in Vancouver
- The mountains all around
- The Pacific lapping placidly
- Little did I imagine the New Zealand Island-Continent
- The blade is gripped in my hand
- 2020? 2025?
- Movies were compelled about this date
- Revolving, seeking their mate
- 2019? 2020? 2021? — Year of the Dyin’
- Like a rock star / folk singer,
- In his torn ripped jeans,
- But who wants to be a Twenty-First Century Mellancamp
- When one can be a genie on the stage?
The End: X.