What repose and subtle wonder it is
to venture looking backward
upon my written name.

Scribbled, lacking coherence in its characters,

doctored suggestively towards containing
 an inherent “literary” edge

out of just what it is,

an association of sounds,

(parent’s gifted accidents of intention)
commingled and pushed into

an accepted truth by repetition

and repetition alone.


The surges of black-tongued self-consciousness

-that I’m far above the spot-scratching undergraduate

notion of admiring my personal stamp, of falling in love

with myself by using “bigger” words to fetishize
my most basic claim on having existed, of being HERE-

are given rise. 


These fade, by examples immemorial, to give way to other voices

striving for attention, to grasp their mark upon the page.

Late evening



On a wall,

Initials carved with a filthy bar

of rationed soap

In Dungeon Europe’s eastern range.

Where prison bars once hounded in

where beating’s sounded off 
morning’s crisp hue

The inevitable made its finer points here

Trampling over names and voices

lost to history.


Now a museum

the lunch-time rush 
of internationals

(who mostly work for corporations with offices in every place they travel)

Photograph themselves with expensive cameras

After shuddering, some even hazarding a tear

in considering what fates have befell

occupants on the wrong side of a different bureaucracy

 ....but all that matters, after they leave, is the the proof 

they were there. And how it was just how they imagined.


Morning, in my bedroom

and I’ve written something again...



I can stack it away

if I feel that I failed to capture

what I wanted to be seen

(if not in my own handwriting,

then on some gilded white screen

letters upright and well-rounded.)



How much can it matter to me?

Seeing my own name

allotted above or at the end

of some juvenile thoughtpiece
the kind editors everywhere
are doing their best to get rid of.


I suppose I write because it pushes me out of the expected

it releases me, on these mornings, these graceful, time-blessed

mornings, out of the cell.

To roam among the other skeptics, who thought aloud to wistfully

spend time away from the routine

To hold aloft a lighter-flame for those trapped inside.

Jeremy Corbyn has enraged
The invisible monster

The machine is spun;
By pieces of mouth
Manipulated by
Megalomaniac
'Internationals',
Capitalistic global corporations,
Arms and petroleum merchants.

Surprise, surprise!!
It's time to climb
Up on the  cross
The global temple vendors,
Precisely placed politicians,
And media pharisees
Have been plotting
For Jeremy Jesus
I wonder who will wash their hands?

Merry Christmas!


Sean Hunt  
Windermere Xmas 2015

I have not been writing enough.
The beach the ocean the liquor the life guarding
Hath made me a sluggard. Lazy, un-inspired, creatively empty.
These crazy hazy days of summer,
The tourists the internationals the Irish the *******.
Have me numb drunk and in love.
But I am not writing enough.
Since leaving the mountains, the west, the Rockies, my pen has ceased to create,
breath, live.

Again, a fat, a fool, a teenage Lights
of the insane, the smoke,             to keep the maternal,
which is instructed in the south,                to drink after
devastating their muses & Museum to the sound of the well-woolen
garments WINDS to the town,          the land,             to do violence
to the nature of leather blows that cut off the ode,
hidden in the sense of having a shadow
of the insanity of a suitable lay hold on is called
the sanctuary of the goddesses in the morning,
Mark seemed to be the most sacred for full ****** *******,
the light of a lot of the enemy, the snow is right,           wiping it,                   is *****
                                                   as far as of death,
to stand on prostitutes,                                part of the field order
of the warm move them began to be the elders
of the ends of the man held on the penalty of a strange
god looked at the men,                                                          tha­nks to the **** painting, the dreams of the gleaming on the shore
of the propagation of the lady is in a unique a letter
unto the other hand,                  be advanced through the opening,
the province of Asia, & out of the sheath thereof,
& for the fall, from the twist of fate, to say;                For torches
Remember your mother or to demonstrate that the queen
of the mountains from the District of Holy Orders Sun
Internationals ** - Oh! The truth is,                                                          in the medium
Bra & skin leaves mountains.

On the shoulder of I-84’s
overpass as eastbound
enters Portland,
an almond tree
lets down its fruit.

Her petals,
pink the same as preschoolers
color the sky
and white as the paper
beneath the wax,
tremble in the violence
of Internationals
and Peterbilts,
the same violence
that grabs fistfuls
of my sweater
in intervals.

Jack under, jack up,
lug nuts off after a fight
and this freeway tumbles
in a storm of those flowers
cast off in April-sun,
I am down a layer and sweaty.

Steel wire arcs where sidewall was
and rubber gralloch marks its death,
those eight seconds of braking
behind, those eleven tree species
lined as a windbreak.

      I am lucky to have stopped
      beneath this almond.
      It is the only tree in bloom
      along this stretch.
      Its softness has lessened the day.
      Her olfactory embrace deadens
      that of axle grease and sunrot.
      I am not afraid of those trucks
      passing a wrench-span away.
      This is enough, for now.