how easily
all can be
forgotten

tomorrows
empty of bygones

no other sorrow
than a slight
longing

the longing
of a sailing ship

waving at the shore

the distant shore

one by one,
all the lines
of her silence,
manuscripted,
brought
before him,

one by one,
all the lines
on her hand palm,
all of her lives,
bringing her
before him.

and one by one,
all of it,
dropping,
down the royal
stairs, into stone,
before him.

Counting blessings
for gratefulness.

Stumbling on zero.

Blinded by aching.

took all of my belongings
- those words i borrowed
for staging myself -, packed
it all, pinned it a note,
here's to us, if ever,
went for a dock
(no lighthouse please,
the night needs a rest).

Here's a thought. There is no market for poetry. None.
So why go to all the hassle and delay and dealing with
elitist editors' asinine egos to publish in a magazine with
a publication of, say 100, when you could self-publish
and give the books away. Either way, you make no money
and remain obscure. Except by self-publishing, your
frustration level goes way down. It was good enough
for Walt Whitman. Think about it before sending
a lot of submissions into the void. It's your writing.
Take charge of it. Be an anarchist!

  ~mce

All poets are young,
some are just trapped
in older bodies.

  ~mce

1 - Sweep out the International Space Station.
2 - Eat Kale every day and like it.
3 - Learn to know and like a republican.
4 - Become a Mixed Martial Arts champion.
5 - Be kind to extinct wolverines.
6 - Develop at taste for Rap music.
7 - Explore gastronomic excess with you $16 in food stamps.
8 - Teach the cat how to vacuum and dust.
9 - Find the last person under 30 without a smartphone.
10 - Figure out why God created Twitter.
11 - Solve the riddle of what women really want.

12 - Give up on all the above by Ground Hog Day.

  ~mce

I want to make poetry
from poverty.
I eschew women.
I buy nothing.
I eat little.
I own less.
I have neither
TV nor cellphone.
This is not asceticism.
I just want
to know the bones
of life before
I become
the bones of death.
  ~mce

If I had $12 I'd
buy a bottle of whiskey
to ease the pain of poverty.
I don't.That is
exactly the definition
of poverty.

  ~mce

It is six AM.
Do you know
where your poet is
right now?

  ~mce