start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.

it could be you

and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment.  cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break

Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-

bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.

Formalist conceit: striving mad
'Til driven mute, the pattern
wraps you up in a
blanket made of shackles.

See the poet Pagliaccio
Suffer muses' scorning laughter,
Bound and stricken witless, dullard.

Sheathe that poison knife you call a tongue,
Leave the pen your gun in its holster.
Cast your bullet words into the gutter.

The formless form: scatter words and
Enjamb your wits against null space.
The water is the container, no buckets,
No brackets. From disorder, order.

This poem will say nothing.
"Clouds snowed in the yard,"
and I record it here,
for reasons unknown even to myself.
The clouds have wine-dark pelts,
but that’s nothing new: skies are hard
to find new lines about. Poets fear
the cliché, try to enjamb around it – won’t help.
What is the jaggy cumulus mouthing
in the upper distance? Coagulating lard,
the snow meets salt, goes gray. Look up, peer
into that distance: skullish hills melt,
discolor into the hue of bruise or welt,
as if even the earth self-flagellates, regards
this day with self-loathing. I’ll change gears:
turned skyward like a telescope,
this poem said nothing.

It could not be any clearer
how I must now deceive the mirror
assume another tragic role
even if it must then take its toll

For I have crawled many miles
painted on so many smiles
just to get where I am
using words I dare enjamb

Wanting to only just reveal
a hint at all that I do feel
all that I do still now know
within a perfect poetic flow

Ignoring all of those voices
offering such trivial choices
tried to convince me to stay
on a different path, a different way

While I take this empty stage
prepare to turn another page
even though this ink is not dry

ever certain of how I must try