The truth about poets
Is
They’re not all alike
Some are derelicts
Scalawags
Lovers
Sisters
Some say they’re writers
Instead of Poet
For they know what that puts
Into the minds of others
Romantic
Lethargic
Gypsy
Some will never write novels
Poems are their Ulysses
Their ‘Love in the Time Of Cholera
Some are sad
Withdrawn
Choose to live there
While some poets
Use their words
To claw their way out
Some have fallen out of love
&
Want someone
ANYONE
to listen
While some have fallen in
the deepest ocean
&
Want to tell the world
What this man
This woman
Means to them

Most write their verses
Alone
Some at midnight
Some at sunrise
Some with coffee
Most with bottles

Most will never see the reaction
Of many
Will never hear
‘I like that...’

And most don’t want to be famous
Or sometimes heard
We
Just want to be
Ourselves

Not what you think,
The shrinks, the drugs
Wore out, me and them,
Now we just exchange regards,
Used crying towels
All agreed,
So much the better
For me and the State

Nobody's fault,
These fault lines,
Run so ******* deep,
From California to New Caledonia
Where I've gone to hide from
Lunacies, visionaries, one pill cures-all-defeats
Laugh tracks and reruns,
Death defying boring English documentaries
On gardening and milking cows,
Video cassettes, lunettes
The Internet,
Might as well do it almost all

The conclusion reached,
Strained from an armada of words,
Tankers, tugs, cruise tours,
Man o' Wars,
Totals cannot be reach,
Too many words,
Saying the same but different,
Saying the sane but different,
Saying you sunk to the bottom,
only up, the only autoroute

Almost laughable,
Heal thyself,
The End,
So here I am
Twixt any two continents,
A continental on a rock island
Far from mon pays natal,
Here, I am unnoticed
Midst the stones of Noumea,
Talking to myself, one last time,
Hoping for kind words en Anglais ,
Pourquoi pas?

This then the conclusion,
Strained from a life diluted,
Writing Poetry in English,
Looking for just a few-more words,
Kind, gentil, let me try this
Genre,
Why not?

Heal Thyself
The conclusion, strained

March 2014

The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy


the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug  
upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a
higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away,
in their communal bed

two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand,
confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling,
it informs on me, providing the room temperature,
and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer

the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses,
the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass,
all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection,
all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy

despite the visual evidence abounding all around,
despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted,
love songs, poems and the other artistic churn,
depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the
living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical
in quantitative quality, typology, representation and
manifestations measurable

each greets the other with morning declarations of
mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways
to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof
the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability
is precious capital precision equal
and ha! each love is the greater...

you knew this?
then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the
Fighting Fallacy rules,
every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are
identical and equal, in so many ways,
but never quantifiable exactly

8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side
11/12/17