Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.

Translated From French
I prefer English.
Is it English?

On a hot day,
I was strolling.
It was noon.
The sun was not.

The sky I could see it.
Without my head by my eyes.

The morning hours are whole.
Those evening thoughts have vanished.
The joys of the day never last.
I was happy.


They Have Surmised
Then, that is.
Out of the of.
Out my head.
This gaze weighing on.

Still, I continue.
As close as possible.
Come close.
Show us, and trust anyone.

The stranger still looking,
Spoke to the birds.
One of them to take my fingertip.


Forth From Nature
I listened to the singing.
This chirping, very slowly.

I was looking for an out,
In the center of the park.

All around me,
The sky was blue.

A few insects were hopping.
Intense life, the buzzing.


Well Dressed
He was telling himself this.
I had a small piece of bread.
Of crumbs.

Don't be angry.
Only observe.

He was wearing rubber boots.
With so much kindness.


Them Crumbs
It's a sign, commendable.
Like most, gracefulness.
I pulled the pie from my pocket.
A lie, I am sure.


None of Them
It's not that order.
I like, waterfalls, secret moments, open terraces, those birds, the garden.

Unfortunately, I appear very interested,
In what I was doing.

Stop thinking about watching me.
Some people are odd.

A poor man is sharing with the birds.
I've never seen this.


I matched My Step
We moved away, walking slowly.
He stopped and looked at the sky.
A great love of simple things.

Someone who doesn't think.
This is what makes a friendship.
The sign of great wisdom is not asking.

I know this.
I am wise.
I ask only to take.
But this is denied.


A Slice of
Who could hear every noise?
The garden was deserted.

We see someone going by.
The stranger, we didn't know.
Eating a piece of meat.
One always wonders.


Crumbs
To the birds:
I do it because I'm nothing.
I am fond of independence,
But not contentment.

The bread I brought.
Birds, a few yards away.

That woman.
I saw him.


I Was Jealous
People who eat outside,
Looked at him with pity.
It was great to see that.
In spite of everything,
There on earth.

For the others,
I was not jealous.
Those who desire nothing,
Don't notice someone eating.

Not even a look with the stranger.
He was truly poor.

We walk without saying.
It's so pleasant to walk.


One Evening
Lure him to an alley.
With a station wagon.
The cops put it together.
As a very L.A. crime.

Neither had a restaurant.
The other a big house.

Daily accounts of the eyes.
They had some horrible soup.

What would it be like to go to prison?
Listening to jazz records.

They had an opportunity.
And maybe, they had money.
We can't know.


Think So?
Not knowing exactly where.
Of being lost.
Most look at you.

Any more bread?
For not having any,
He should run out.
I wanted some,
So I could go on giving.

I am intelligent right?
I had enough for today.


Two Days Later
Son of a famous cowboy.
High above the flatlands.
The cowboy wasn't there.

There was a lot of talk about,
Mysteriously obtained income.
There had to be a way.
The Ruscha painting on the wall.

I wondered.
They're all so stoned.


And Yet These Were Not
I was likable.
I could speak to animals.
Without really thinking.
Something to do.
The birds had said.

Should have remained one.
What others hear so often.
I had wanted.

Smaller and smaller.
This stranger surely was.


Vacant Study
It was an ordered space.
A polished woodplank desk.
Open to a blank page.

A quill pen and the desk,
Among usual knick-knacks.
A pendulum, a crystal framed photo,
Weathered in Tibet.

Partially eclipsed.
An antique I surmised.
That was something.
Something that wouldn't.
Or so I guessed.

Anything better?
Someone grabbed by elbow.


His Servant Is Rare
A month to transform.
The only transformation is crime.
Fantasies, dreams.
You have to be brutal.

Outbreak of crime.
The servant-master is the servant.
A servant has no possibility.

And secondly, the money.
The crime.
Three or four.
Paranoid about crime.
The reality is killed.


You Know
I had just enough time to see.
At almost the same moment,
The birds wouldn't look.
They'll come back.

But I don't have any more bread.
I have to confess.
I don't have any more bread.

Malicious tone.
No one is perfect.