POEM: OCCULTED MAN, WAITS.

A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake. Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it, the sun dried up the lake. New green showed it's tender leaves. And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.   Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass. Images from one brief life, onto the next. I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...

POEM: WHAT NEXT!

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea. These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent. Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...

POEM: YELLOW FISH

I was painting ten paintings the other day. In the music studio and lost an idea among a pile of dead poems sitting on a shelf, it was a good idea! It was something about the sound a bird makes after a terrible storm; for the world is stilled and made over completely in that single solitary second. This is not the only world…by far...

Poem: IT’S NOT THAT COMPLICATED…

  by Michael Burns The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery into what otherwise was a simple thing. Claimed they had inside information. Claimed all kinds of things. Swore to high heavens they knew someone who, knew someone...told lies, to impress their friends or lovers. And some were, genuinely delusional, or crooked, or just plain old lonely, and looking for attention, swore they knew the real truth of it. It was in fad, and then out of fashion. Some even threatened, to eradicate that curiosity for good. Others, went to war over it -

Poem: WHITE DOG

The white dog stops... we breathe in for a minute and take in the universal breath. It is dark out here... it's black and darkly cold, out here. The wind cuts the image from my eyes, and I watch it fall frozen and split like glass into the snow. This deep and unwritten thing -- waiting on edge, for a free life to write it, too large to see it all deep back in there beyond my visions reach. The starry dingle...I begin, and now I see it, I raise my head to take in all this...

Poem: Poets Hospital

There's a hospital for poets... End of the road for a broken dreamer, and an artist with tarnish on his soul. There's no line up there, you just walk right in and get into a bed. Dead dreamers are wheeled by on gurneys on their way to reincarnations. The place is filled with unspoken words, and half filled remnants of...those angry hearts Ghosts walk the halls of the unpublished, asking you for a word...ah, "Please will you listen." The great Dylan Thomas died here and the place reeks now of a writing shed. Corso walks by holding an antiquated toaster and speaks to him in tongues about the substance of a symbol "I was born here and I will die here." He exclaims in the accent of an Italian Hamlet, on passing...