This is a poem
Close enough to saying nothing
so the reader knows before you do.
I Want to Learn Chinese
I pass between ancient characters
and modern ones too.
They arrange a bridge
across my perverted expression.
It could be mixed metaphors
or dad jokes but
The Feeling reveals itself eventually.
Nothing I know was taught
by any formal means.
If I studied by monks
what else could I learn
that this dim room in my head
has not already forced upon me.
Maimonides
The holiest of gifts
could be had
if I remained
as anonymous as you,
Gentle Reader.
Self Portrait
Drawing yourself might be impossible.
Like the split light in a box
Or the sound of a loved one
Take a peak and it’s changed
irrevocably.
First Words
First words are of the most import
Who could waste ink or breath or silly little notes?
We gather every thought
like scars on our back
hoping whoever looks behind
will realize what they lack.
Hear
The first and the second gave all that could be.
The last will follow and take you to sea.
But if the first is all you have,
then deaf to it all,
you’ll remain.
I Prefer My Suffering to Theirs
Dear Other Writers,
all your work is plastic.
Bent for the idiot,
lasting forever,
and none of it looks good.
Since everything is up to Me,
i’ll write for today,
and yield to nobody
not even Myself
because that’s how I prefer it.
Sincerely,
The Sovereign
You’ve misunderstood what I meant
in the title
You could live a life
filled with nothing
even if it was your nothing
and still be left without a nation
to place your own two feet
But if you find yourself amongst trees
that call your name
and you answer back in kind
and you write it all down
and you keep answering
Or you find yourself a neighbour
and make a silly little wave
and she waves back
and you wave again tomorrow
Or you find yourself before The End
so you knock on doors
and walk every road
until the people call your name
and you answer back in kind
That is what I mean
The Point
There is no point
when everything is short
and everything is sweet.
Captain O’Captain
These are lines that capture me
and this bird
who could give a shit.
Wrestle between the contours and the smears
between the folds in the page
and the folds in my hand
no trace is left clean
when all that’s left
is my handedness
and how well it can hold
all of this mess.
Rice
What beautiful grain
That has fed me well
for many years
as well a billion others
but sometime it falls
and makes a mess of itself
and you feel hatred
well from your ancestors stomach
as you watch it lie
as you watch it rot
Then gratitude washes over
And you come-to
So you make another pot
and it feeds you well
for many years more.
This is not a poem
It just needs to be honest,
you’ll know when it’s not.
If it touches no one but you,
it’s as real as the sun,
something we all feel,
at any angle.