A for Blog

How can you think like a poet
if you can think
“like a poet”,
if you can think you think
too much.

Boy racer
your future
is a tooth
you are drilling.
It is thrilling.
You are killing
the root.

See how right
I can be
when you whiten
my nights
and you tighten
my ears
like a bee.

The past supports you
like a trampoline.

Your future:
face it.
Unlace it.
Embrace it.

Don’t be afraid.
I never
say “never”
or “always”.
Oops.

San-ctus, squeak, lip synch,
sing sing sing sing,
pretty bit,
attention, attention, top A on the way,
Ho-san-na in ex-cel-sis,
O lip synch, lip synch, squeak,
ex-cel-sis
sing sing sing Amen.

O total Untitled,
would I had time.
O tragic Untitled,
you won’t bring a dime.
O tacky Untitled,
why underline
your bright blue crime?

Some words set the world on fire
(flambé, brulé, hooray)
and some are served on ice

and some are served
(preserved, deserved)

on blue ice, pack ice, brash ice
wild ice, old ice, told ice.

On the brink of rotten ice
or ice blink, think twice.

Some poems are of and in
the ice… not mild… not nice…

And locked in rock, more ice
archives the past and meta-past.

Haloed now in diamond dust
ice falls upon ice.

Some words set the world on fire
and some are served on ice.

Brain goes faster than the mind.
Which is which and which is us?

Mind is a necessary friend.
Brain is a stranger, brain is the boss.

Instructions > procedures > policies>
lollies > threats > commandments >
conscience > categorical imperative >
and genes.

Whims > promises > vows > laws >
and lifelong quests.

Dear Ms. R. McAlpine,
Thank you for your letter.
We will answer your letter about royalties.
A sum of money
which our company must pay you
hasn’t occurred yet.
Sincerely,
Tairyusha.

The charms of my apartment
are negative. Doors
not there. Squares deleted.
Absence of rubble.
Absence of trouble.

Wax books (hollow).
Mini-Shinto gate to nowhere.
Empty. Mysterious. Blank.

If I had a tree
I would carve it.

If I had a pie
I would halve it.

If I had your heart
I would marvel
all over again.

Mind,
remind me:
are you still mine?

God’s fools congregate
in the hall of absentees.
Let you in, late.
Let you out, please.

A moment in hell
solders the fractures,
seasons the steel.
All will be well.

The poems I have lost are many
and many and many and many.

For instance, where is the usability
test about suspenders?

Now I am writing poems
about money. Poor money.

No one writes poetry for you:
there isn’t any.