Poet is a word for another

[revolutionrabbit]

Poet I am just a say, away
I look for the words that speak for themselves
and in that play on, I find the words by making them
it is not that finally they end up that
it is that I dare care because it also is clear
not that there few words will make any difference
in this world, abode of broken records, a tone all
improvisation, making it up as we go along
kicking the can, flipping the bird of word
yet they do make all the viva la difference
that they come together in that other
once we get beyond that, image, that tossed stone
at circus mirrors in the hurricane's very eye

as a poet, as a beacon on a street corner
flailing arms like some drunken prophet
whirling rags and scarves of torn language
at the scary cherry sun about to drop in the drink
sending out word of light and dark that sing, sync
or make flirt noise with sounds of things that cry
we begin to hear something that out of high chaos
brings harmony and a shaking of the foundations

we live in such times, that a poet is a bum or a monk
a blurt of jangle mangle the English into unruly flowers
these are just labels that must give way to the stark hark!
persona of a rogue of roads, or a flapper of stories modes
that we should see in each another one to find, unwind
that each one is placed in front of the other one, one

but not that it is really read like that, more like the story
is told from the end rather then there it seems to start
we have been taught the sequence by the very problem
which is then seen as the only solution itself, the problem
then becomes the end in itself, this the sense that we come
to it, by some kind of mix up of events, some shattering
of scattering of our conscious, the poets come to flow, to flow

it is not what you see, it is how you see it, and then know
you say what you see through that very shift in perception
we have come to pass at a gathering of dimensions, flipped
like a coin in Moby Dick that has that spinning reflection
that when it goes up in the ocean braced air, it holds there
in motion for a harpooned split second, it holds our wonder
our very life's breath, it holds all the myth making power
to peel all the myths back and see the very flesh of the whole
whale, oh well, oh tell tell, oh Poe, oh garden of crow

Ah, then do we see the very flame of Autumn become a herald
that descends through the heaven and hells of colored leaves
do we hear the distant voices not of better angels but bitter fruit?
are we still mired in old cloaks of reason that serve no statue well
no fig leaf that will cover all the unsightly verses that rip the veil
apart so that we may see with new sight, that all the addresses
of our discontent, are only so much window dresses and taboo

we break only to make another sign of the loss upon our asunder brow
oh burst me wide open like a thrust into earth a fist of lightning forever
rather that we should pen such revolutions of infinite information, now

[dadio]

It has that Shakeperean fee about it. Impressive poem.l

[revolutionrabbit]

i suppose, willy the shakes, i donno,
it is a kind of rhythm, it takes so many
lines to get it goin, then it mock shape sphere
like almost, man.

kinda american goth mix with all that dense
shake the cells up.But, I'm all surrealist.

but even that comes from my late 60's mind.
so in my novel, Gone Hallucinogen Freeway
there is a lot of dense psychedelic surrealism.

as it were, but, though i did not study the classics
all that much, just a lot of random reading.I would
like to say that Emerson and Thoreau, William James,
have had a influence, or even Poe, I never read Moby Dick
read more Magick Realism, then american writers,
a little French and German Philosophy

I read Burroughs, don't know why that channeling Shake.
like almost anti-shake, or that English language thing,
not knowing any other language, except translations.

so what is the great mystery of William.....Shakespere?
that he really is Francis Bacon? that all the deep symbolic
stuff is some kind of code? I can't even think of one
quote, off hand, though some of it just hangs around
on the subconscious.Like those moving forests.

hey Prospero!

Prospero's Speech

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,

And what strength I have's mine own,

Which is most faint. Now 'tis true

I must be here confined by you

Or sent to Naples. Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardoned the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell;

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands.

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;

And my ending is despair

Unless I be relieved by prayer,

Which pierces so, that it assaults

Mercy itself, and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardoned be,

Let your indulgence set me free (Epilogue 1-20).