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Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Saturday, August 24, 2013

another found poem

signs in a yard in december
keep out
private drive
no trespassing
i have a gun and will use it
Merry Christmas

    Found poetry project/ the Guardian

    Wife 350

    What are numbers? Just numbers.

    Hamilton was a poet
    And Simone re-imagined poets as poems.
    There were many types:
    Formal poems, odd poems, happy poems.
    Run loose poems,
    Seriously rich poems.

    She saw his work as a fancy game:
    Scrambling words into breaks,
    making prose more like music,
    considering his own idea a breakthrough
    but really just making Scottish of a Latin text.

    Still Simone understood the basic rules.
    Poetry was supposed to remake the ordinary.
    His poems were just strange.

    For his part,
    Hamilton found her kind in the start,
    but literally third best at scrambled eggs.

    They never discussed the controversial recipe,
    unearthed from a book of original slave documents.
    It involved taking a collage of ingredients from the fridge,
    mixing in concrete,
    adding tasty bits only with the lefthand
    and pouring over cereal.

    He wolfed it down
    then had to call the doctor.

    And she cut up his newspaper.

    In the fourth month.
    after a bad night of writing,
    he saw a boat,
    went fishing, 
    left a note (often written for a break-up)

    What are numbers?
    Perhaps he might do better
    with wife 350

    Saturday, August 03, 2013

    Need to post this before it slips away.

    Making War

    Gremlins play hockey here at night
    on knife blade skates sharp and bright
    Pucks crisscross the cold tile floor,
    crash against the closet door

    Charging on from room to room,
    they fire off lightning shots of doom,
    gambol closer to the goal 
    and spit out laughter coarse and bold


    a hoarse and threatening voice
    demands (as if I had a choice)

    Beware yourself-

    I answer back
    (with courage that they know I lack)

    I’ve bubbles here, robust and thick
    enough to break a hockey stick
    I puff them out with my short breath
    These quivering rainbow balls of death

    I hear a snort, a chortling yelp 
    then realize that it’s myself
    Sitting upright in the bed,
    a warrior’s scarf around my head 

    They still play hockey in the dark
    Still cavort and shout and bark
    I chase them back with bubbles fat
    Sometimes I wield a nerf foam bat

    The score gapes wider than before
    But I’ll not be frightened anymore