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. I create the artwork. My semi-schizophrenic, alter ego creates the poetry.

The Pale Male Earlier Converted
There was no end.
The surrealist, a moralist.
Professed to detest.

Opium ingested,
Mistress thrashing in his bed.

Consumption, abuse,
A wish to die.
Reckless expenditure.


Just Contemplating
The infamous photo.
Mutilated, librarian corpse.
Stiff, bound wrists.

Blood on the moldy dungeon floor.
Rain in the distance.

Mad, enraged savage art.
Anything to say about it?


You Can Never Say That There's Only One
I get a lot of calls.
Strange people,
The government.
Who's watching?

He didn't say.
This is a common theme.

I'm on the radio.
I wrote a book?
Now that's very strange.

This man who they worshipped.
Deeply unpopular.
No one stands up.
It's doesn't make sense.

You hear people say,
There's no difference.
There is a difference.
That's not different.

One is perfect,
And one is the myth.

Images of one.
If one does something wrong.

The guilty is a myth.
A myth made necessary,
By the myth.
And you can't defy this.


The Book
I wrote it.
The whole thing.
It all came together.
The book.

I was conscious of what we were doing.
Near the street where I live.
Three or four people.
Questioned.

What you think, they feel.
I took out the book.

They started laughing,
And thought it was wonderful.
They loved it.
A great pleasure.

They accused me of soliciting the book.
It was absurd.
I was a pimp supposedly.
How ridiculous.

I considered it poetry.
Poetry not recognized.


Repeat The Cycle
Oversized, useless legs.
A pair of stockings.
Plenty of free time.
There was always something of interest.

A particular favorite.
Moby Dick's epilog.
Warm breezes, beaches, a beach chair.

A victim of infantile paralysis.
A tongue sandwich.
Lying in an iron lung.
The sun must have died.

A decade later,
His sense of smell became open.
The rain.
Not ordinary rain.


Civil Disorder
Sitting at a table.
The cat drinking plum juice.
Reminded of his last visit to Katmandu.

The only real excitement every morning.
The diabolical, raging battle,
Between street dogs and crows.
Over the possession of the garbage.
Listen to that.


Drinking Jean Paul
To understand Greek,
Call the Polish composer.
They called.

Yes, what have you got?
I have a painful procedure to do.
You will like it.

Buy red wine at outrageous prices.
If you say so.

Milky, alcoholic, rotten fruit.
Give me the whole bottle.

Let me ask you a question,
It is French?


Talent To Fish
Just put it aside.
To be paid and spend all your money on books?
You're crazy.

I'm describing a kind of ossification.
What's happening?
These are changes.
And it's affected me.

An addictive sociologist and heaven.
Find it interesting?

Disappear without a trace.
And spend a lot of money.

You can't do that,
Can't you?

We have to say,
This person is "X",
And take that kind of analysis seriously.


A Casual Sunday Conversation
Black and white footage.
A male figure with female parts.
How hazy the line forms.

Investigate declaration throughout.
Do not trust faith.
The words, a string of lies.

Rhyming words in personal narrative.
Scenes of orating language.

Language that intrigues.
That compels.
It sounds strange.
Like, "chop a duck head."


No, I Don't
Do you think books should be banned?
That puzzles me.

Is grammar not suitable?
A guy suckling on breasts.
Starving?
Absolutely, I'm sure.

I know it's being discussed.
What is considered normal.
I'd say,
No.


So, In Other Words
Thinking for a purpose.
I remember.

I became communist.
I was.

I thought it was impossible.
It was boring.
I couldn't accomplish one ideology.

I thought censorship.
But I didn't.

I belonged to nothing because,
I think I was,
I felt that,
I


The Village And The Beats
You ask a lot about the idea.
What do you think of is?

A creative outbreak.
To look back and say,
That was.
You're saying it.

People will say,
It was.
Because at least,
It was.

Compared to now,
Which I notice now.
You cannot, not notice.
It is the fact,
That is was so.

It's not good.
And if it isn't,
You know, the culture is.

There are technical things,
Which basically comes to people.
Not worried about was,
When was would never go.


It Seems I Think
Do you have confidence?
Did you ever think?

No, I mean, I thought.
But I don't think.

Got some papers.
The government told them,
That I didn't.
That I never thought.
I was shocked.

Of course, the thought.
I would have thought.


A Backward Step Puzzles Me
Life is the influential culture.
Autobiography books with obscenity laws.
A literary canon?

What is going on?
It seems to have gotten sharper.
I think it's sort of difficult.

What is going on, I remember.
A really bad situation,
The situation seems.

Dangerous, I don't know.
People saying the same thing.
The system
It can fall apart.


Moment of Change
The thought had never occurred.
A whole new idea.

They trust each other.
Talking just because.

A social interchange.
Kind of laid back.
Probably good.