poemses

    free psychic reading...


You are a creature of regrets.
This much I see as clearly
as the veruca on your soul's toe.
Or did I mean your toe's soul?
You repeat your mistakes
with only the slightest musical variations;
you deviously mislead the oboists each time
into that fatal mistake
that symphonic Black Hole of Calcutta.
Your several hearts mysteriously
debouche dreams each morning
into a too sensible cereal bowl,
and you fear this should be
an illustration included
in a medical texbook.
(You pray they will discreetly
block out your face.)
You are beguiled most by those
you would most beguile.
All of this is most puerile, natural
and pathetic: stalactites-
and-stalagmites type stuff.
It's the literary equivalent
of popping zits. You say
necessitas like a douche.
Lovers have observed you are a snowstorm
that suddenly forgets what it is doing
in the middle of Lake Erie.
You are an unplayed Stradivarius,
but also an unstraying platypus.
You have a medical oddity
you fear one day will kill you,
but actually it will be the peaches.
Too much information?
When you watch Dracula turn the mirrors
to the wall, you feel jealous
and horny. In a previous life,
you were a sparrow who died
in a blizzard's guessing game.

But probably that last bit was a big "Duh" for you.








why dis you use the word "confinement" about your recent predicament?


No. I didn't have Rodin's baby.

That could have certainly complicated things though.

A French sculptress in the 19th century

cannot afford to be a mistress

and have "no baby" too.





camille claudel sitting in a lunatic asylum for thirty years thinking...

Marble is fucking expensive.






a farmer had three daughters...

When rains are on thee
http://www.xixinhg.com/culbertson.html




    love grows...

Love grows as a leaf does,
slowly as eyes in the womb
that later may be swift
in an animal's skull.

Possibly even deadly.
Hunter or guard.
Angel or psycho.

Fucked up
or fucking up others.

The body may tattoo
itself for easy identification.

But even the tattoos may be a ruse.

Animals and other things
beyond control
will shape that eye.

Wings may sprout
in either circumstance.



    oh the tattoos...

dead lamby boy naked on the autopsy table




    the poem...


is a sort
of concentration camp
all its own

some elements
of the imprisoned set
are set aside

to play music
for the rest

as they are shunted

right or left

left or right



    crow in snowfield...

a creature

milling the distinctions




    they say if you sing...


between light and hunger

you may become

less human


more useful






    (untitled)...


Keeping up with the brightness
is what poets and Lucifer do.




    you're so hot...

no flies come
this time of year
to bless the green apple

by posing on it
as death's funny

fake eyelashes





    can you accept it?...


the egg of a flea
can pose as a poppy seed

you might put it on your tongue
enjoy it with lemon cake

What if the Final Judgment
(sounds like a bad schwarzenegger movie!)

is to be no more efficient than that?








    still life...

A rainy day buffers the hospital.
Does the fog feel the building
it coddles as a sort of egg?
A Salon des Refuses sort of day.
Is it a Sunday? A Thursday?
Everybody today wears a Wittgenstein costume
whether they're on a a first name basis
with Ludwig or not. He's infiltrated
our age in a way health has not.
I keep thinking of the two innocent green apples
in the fridge at home,
in their sort of shop window.
Two green apples doing a sort of performance art.
They do look like a gay marriage.
Even the Catholics would admit that.

How luminous they look together!

They don't even have to go out on the street.




    loony library there...


The library in that building? mostly children's books
and Susan Sontag. How queer
a game guessing is!
A hospital is a place for guessing games.
Poets live or die by guessing.
Poets live and die by guessing.
Poets live in a sort of hospital
they carry around with them.
They carry bandages for words.

They should wear a white headband
like apollinaire's headwound leaking grammar!



    a poem about my grammar...


Grammar lives apart from us
an alienated ancient old dame.
We know she'll never leave us
one whit of her riches
but we hope and dream.

Grammar lives apart from us
and guesses at nature all by herself.

Maybe she has a cat she loves
because the cat doesn't try to fuck
with grammar the way poets do.

Grammar has a few autistic friends
she likes to see occasionally,
like Gertrude Stein
who hunkers down
when she is saying "Sack!
Sack the Quarterback!"

Hunkered down to tea.