No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch

This is the last poem
The month’s end

They lie in the rubble
As I take it all in
Crumbling figurines
Little toy soldiers
Falling
Little rag doll children
Dying

The wind does not whistle
Beautifully
Only mournful sobs
Sound here in this horror show

There is not enough power
In my heart to stop
What so many have started
So I shatter it on purpose
Break each beating ventricle
Into a thousand plus jagged parts

Red with life’s blood
Wet with life’s love
I pass out each piece
Giving as much power as I have
To give
Morbid love I know

Fractured and scattered among the nightmare
A song rings
The saint in me sings
Give it all to them

The bandaged people cringe and crawl
To them I cry
I love you all

Ginsberg, Kerouac, Whitman
understood the importance of poetry,
words from a good universe that make the world
admit a secret: that the best way to live
is to grab hold of life
and not let go,
to love
and not be ashamed,
to write from the universal soul
     for what hides in the universe is verse.

Everyone thinks
    that not everything
can be fantastic
     but the secret is
that Everything is

     Kerouac wrote,
'no time for poetry
but exactly what is”
     the truth is that everything is poetry:
tying your shoes to go to school
a cool breeze on a too sunny day
a lover's warm thigh
the stars,
that remind me that we all have
something in common

     Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on your cheek
     not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear
     not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least,
     not a reason to wake up tomorrow?

A leather-bound work of art catches my eyes and convinces them to feast upon what it has to offer,
They gobble up each word, those gluttons, stuffing themselves,
Until they get full and dizzy to the point where I’m reading the same line, the same line, the same line, over and over again.
I fall into a trance and my mind begins to curiously wander.
My soul takes this atlas of all that has existed, exists, and will exist, and uses it as its play ground,
Jumping over the letters, sliding down the “J”s, weaving around the “S”s, jumping over the “O”s, and ducking under the “H”s.

I pick up this narrative of life and attempt to decipher the map of all that was, all that is, and all that will be.
For this novel tells a story of one and tells the story of a million,
And it is my mission to read every single word, to pause at every comma, and to flip every page.

I realize that out of all of the stories in this compilation of creations,
I am just one of them.
I am one sentence,
I am one word.

I dance with
body electric
blue and
sliding,

Let me
teach you:

Yoncé flexin
-*******,
*******-
hands up
hips rolling
like loaded
dice

Song over.

9-5 just
to stay alive
another month

Clouded days,
Snow in sight .
Darkest night,
The moon's a light.
Quiet frost like crystal- glows,
Burning fire makes warmth flow.
As branches feel the weight,
we learn this winters fate.
Do we let our hearts freeze along?
or learn to sing winters song?
We can only sing together-
to make warm this cold wicked weather,
and I wish for this good to come true
And find warmth in others, in You.

Clean and white canvas anew.
Is it easier to leave it or create in hues?
Winters ice freezing many of them all,
and we hope their cold Hearts might come around next fall.

My trembling,
pimpled little
yawp

on its way over
the rooftops,

Was blown by a whim,
bounced off
a gable

and fell into
the backyard
of a preacher

It was spitted,
and brushed
and cooked to a turn

Then served up
with coleslaw
to a chortling
crowd of
the brethren

after a sermon,
of course,
and hymns
and grace

and a chorus
of heartfelt
amens

You were the most important poem I ever read.
I didn't have to pretend to understand you
like Emerson
But I memorized you all the same,
like Frost.

Writing poems about poetry
Is problematic, you see.

Poetry is subjective
Changes with every person

Poetry doesn't always stick with you
but sometimes you can't get it out of your head.

Sometimes you want nothing more than for the poem to end
to have never read it

Others you read and re-read and wish you could read it once more
for the first time.

You were the hardest poem I ever read.
I didn't pretend to like all of you
like Whitman
But I loved you all the same
like Dickinson.

You were my favorite poem I ever read.

K.A.

52 Weeks: Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

52 Weeks: Mullein**

The Red-Tailed hawk swoops by and catches just a glimpse, he tilts his head Dionysian style mouth slightly agape.

I too am a wild thing, I too am untethered,
And I sound animalistic in the dining halls of the tamed.

The final missile thud holds me in a sweet caress,
My likeness rockets earthward … tried and true and tired and truer,
I am coaxed into existence once again.

I maintain my aetheric ties as I know this is the roadmap back to you,
It’s nice to be enmeshed in the living once again even though they drain,
To drain is to live, one gives eternity to be mortal - it’s the only thing that ever made sense.

I won’t depart, I dig in my heels,
And I turn my back on the organized.

I am of the earth because I understand my antecedents … my mother’s mother’s mother …
And because of this knowledge of ante’s I can set prece’s, hopefully precisely.

I hardly know who I am or what I mean (on a good day),
But I am good for you none the less,
As our tastes and sounds and smells and touches intermingle.

And always I wait patiently,
for me for you,
for us.

You are the song of myself... That's why we resonate. But there is duality... Otherwise we're just ******* ourselves... We're the children of the Big Bang ... When you become the lightening rod for yourself, then we can *** together ... Forever ... Under the guise of J.H.Christ.... Why J.H.? Because there was a J.A., a J.B., a J.C. ... And this time, if we get it right, then we get to live forever zzz

Never get it right the infinite of eternity is hell ... God gave his only begotten son so the vampires would have something to feed on ... Puritanical is impure ... Perfection is flawed zzz eternal sleep... Vamps don't live forever, we do! U and I on the eye... Get to create heaven here on Hades .... in Walt Whitman's my self -->