Saturday, November 28, 2009

Short Poems

     what nature blamed today

my hand.



     a cemetery where we can walk


Marble daughters...

When rains loves rain it grows...





     in an old cemetery


Love, be for me their green eyelashes




     the snowman



It gets away from mind,

but doesn't escape the children




     the new physics



Art the universe's life is to understand life.


And realize all is found art.




     for the ones in the papers


Who doesn't?

end there?

in death's clumsy bed, clumsily.




     ancient greek tomb of child


"I stopped the world"

the little stone said

and we stood there,





     jeff koons: the movie


I buy from a Bunny who is Wanted for Being the artist.





     new jersey

Only pass by your
Carlos Williams if winter's in your Sonnet
place.

Nobody Dies painting the soul's soul?
You repeat variations;
you deviously bite your recent predicament.




     chinese porn, mistranslated


No. have certainly farmer boy creature

milling say it may become

less human



     give her

Grammar nature all she loves
because to go out, a heavy letter, Dear Rachel....

stones from the sea

posing as eggs

charm me







      ants find sugar

And the Wittgensteinian copy.



     down south


you can go to jail for "reading pussy"





     did you say something?

As moons ago
brain the thee engram

an engram the prune.





     steinian oven

She really modeled his own bird book
on one sent her reading ripping these American
birds to death. Army stores on both sides of it,

the French birds....



     the grass grows

Or soliciting poets.









     mass a chew sets

Keeping up Lucifer do.

unwombs the animal here.

they say each Fall.




     flea

can put it in cake.

A flea.


Call it a marriage.

This brute

I couldn't answer




     altered deck


Lovely eyelet to it

chance

2 comments:

Sheila Murphy said...

These really appeal to me, but then you knew that, didn't you, Bill? Hope TG was good!

William Keckler said...

Thanks much, Sheila! No, I didn't. I was thinking about your Sol Lewitt poem the other day. I think that's whom you dedicated it to. Or maybe I was just thinking how I connect your poetics to his cool ideas on structure as a sort of inherent inheritability. But then I also connect your poetry to Australian Aboriginal art, which I love. I was proud to be part of one of the best shows of that (Aboriginal art) back in my "museumin' days." And in little Harrisburg! There was this long, long painting of our galaxy that was speaking to the Monet room in New York at the same time it was showing us our flickering presence in the universe...the most watery Monet room I mean...that would be a great room to hold a funeral in!

If the lighting was right, I mean...

I just noticed I said "I mean" a lot.

If you mean a lot, it might mean you are on the right track.

Or it could mean disastrously the opposite.

So I should stop saying (pleonastic anyway) I mean.

Or is it pleonastic?

Should all forms of intentionality be given as prefaces to actions...even speech actions?

This conversation with myself has been brought to you by the Society for Self-Reflexive Bards (S.S.R.B.).

Our motto is: "We mean to be ourselves. Seriously."