81 lives

[saw]

don't point your canon of literature
and tell me it's not loaded
I understand it's deadly potential
like I dig a killer sunset

I tremble a bit in the eyes of Chaucer
feel small when I consider the stratum.
the verbal expression and experience,
all those clusters of consonants

I shrink a tad in the face of the Owl
and the Pussycat, and whomever else
that bird of prey was cavorting with,
I think thunder in every direction

to the east, to the western front
to the northern lights, the southern cross
I write a humble poem, toss it in
the mix between Caedmon's Hymn

and the outlaw poet book from the library
in that waiting space between Old English
alliterative tongues and the slamacide
around the corner, do not shred me

dear critic, let me breathe, i am fine
being the pantaloon of your fancy, call
me heretic, even antichrist
if it makes you feel a little better

but know I am a wandering minstrel
the ghost of Rasputin, you cannot kill
my voice, I am a spirit-cat with 81 lives
nine squared

[leafsailors ghost]

It is the art that defines the art
it is the artist that informs the scholar
not the scholar defining the art or informing the artist
building rules and categories and limiting definitions for art is foolishness
folks want to have the last word,
there is no last word
art is free
this poem is free
this poet is free
that is that
I approve of this message in your poem
when people resist the cutting edge
they bleed

[creativesoul]

art is like blood- it runs through the streams of conscieness like a waterfall- a strong river- the current seems to dictate which edge will continue
the sea
your face
all that life
the fire burns on the beach
the whole sky looks down on us with that birds eye view
missed you