Poet as antipoet

the de-struct-ed poem, whose cement
vies for wholedom,

its un-liver-ed masonry depleted as
bones ran out of

bone      to break song with song with
song as much as

the eye stains the gullible pen as much
as the pool of

ink stutters      did it matter then as it
doesn’t now?

Poet as silence

          
As unmitigated sound    un
mediated
           tone of possible
           palpable presences

morning hints warily at
wounds
           at the tip of    trust
           of harbinged rhythms

to tug at the poetic handle
that
           scans sense of self
           as an unmundane possibility

true to beginnings    true
to
           the etched tenacities that
           bring to an end    –

Poet as will and (re)presentation

Poet as dialogue

as one whose speech has barbs of will
in each spate of

wordventure    the spite of an inturned
wall of verbiage

this talking    being oneself    as honest
as ten simplenesses

As underscream

which seething word did my voiced
underscream reach for?    was it

the curve or its sheath?    I conjectured
both    and which pith shone in

with diamond ball?    was it the
curl or its sieve?    I conjectured

abysmally even    even as the torn
pages remembered, reached, perjured

upon the lay of a seceded guile, a
wrapped up clutch of deliberatia

Poet as anarch

I.
Do your words support this one tradition or
that? did the vault of your craft meek out
yet another salve or did it glare in revulsion to craft? do you
salvage or savage the cow at the altar of the unholy? does
the sacred tempt you to sacrilege or do you bow?

will you pause to recall or
move on? will the line ever reveal
what hides or will it too linger off into
distraction (o the webs to save our
words from being more than what they pretend

to be)? where is beauty in this rubble
in the aftermath of one million six hundred sixty
seven forgettings? what molds the tank of
tumors that five hundred and fifteen
vessels of impunity contend to hide?

this is all within reason   this is all within
sight   and the bugles will sing of your
aftersong   they will burn less brilliant
with each lie unless the count
is singed anew.

II.
Caring is done with mouths / fingers
ink   tub of feel   worded want   it is done without
question   it is done within each ask of want   it
is the want of curbing blood   it is how the hammer
nails your meaning into your skin into your gender into your kin

into each marker of sin   each voice that stuns your station
your reach your win   it is done with mouths / fingers
ink   “I care for our world / if I stop / caring about one
it would be only / a matter of time / before I stop
loving / the other (Pat Parker)”

III.
Something in a poem misses a beat and a river crashes
somewhere   a village whispers the vapor of retreat   a
slur gashes the rainbow as each arrow of harm
is blurred – something in a poem misses a beat and
the heart quickens to mollify the red mishappenings.

Poet as art

The clarity of what is haze is
not as clear as the rush of water

pretending to nuzzle my stance   my
ears pretending not to reach over

& tap tap tap on each ant’s shoulder
asking it to eke out the

sun at the bottom of my heart and
swallow it whole – this as art

Poet as hark

– Poet as hark
As thimble, ear, sense of what
As hark – where the sense of what gives ear to

Wednesday – where each noon is assembled, bled a
New

As sense of when; harm is pillow; dire
Banked – where we growl away the sense of where

– How does the poem listen?
How does the poem listen?
With the

Bulb of the pen in still
Ness giving

The moon a month to stare –
How does

The poem listen? as agree
Ment to

Stay on course as the jet
Of ink

Relents; off course the well
Blurts out

There is a source I draw from, a source


         asking
for the leaf to wither now as it is time
asking for the
                       weathered
                       gin of yester
day to cease to 
                       day
this source where dank mixes with sweet mixes with musk