all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am

we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come harmonize. if not us,
then hunger-pains growling
can lead the line. and maybe
throw some stones to judge the
water sat tranquil; air
as other viscosity. breath-
less diving, racing stones to
bottom, yet vessel, feigning,
finds panic without gills.
hold breath till they find
their evolving times; die to
repetition, (along the way,
a few million times) we tend
to lose track, though. often.
always. another word here
to describe mans' deceptive time.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on along
and let us cease rocks thrown
through water at
the man trying so hard to drown.
the man hoping so full that
his organs be traded; skip
effort of a couple millennia.
like darkening skin without a sun;
evading darkness as well as Light.
striding on and over, bringing
prophetic words to forced-truth
on par servilitous, as
the mind's eye shuts another time;
perchanced final, no death knell.
we could sing some crazy half-
song; come, come on and along
and come see him float the stones
thrown to water's bed, on back
of he whom failed to adapt.
failed to rush the process;
failed to see himself as the first -
beginning, to start the queue.
the stones had long been yearning
to float as not to be
any longer thrown-judgement.