Tuesday, October 03, 2006
More new stuff...
The Poet Saves the Planet from Itself
A person
writes
contemplating
silence
a hand stiffens
stead pace
mental mechanics
grind
just as brakes grind
in my ‘79 pinto
6pm space shower
immediate doom
emergent occurrence
only one person
can save the world
the man writing
the man painfully writing
blocked from the rest of the world
his window shades are down
he is contemplating articles
as the world is about to be covered
the urgency of most people
rush to the supermarket
or some outlet
end of the world sales
but not the writer
drowning in a caffeine surge
sleep deprived
for two days this man
has not even seen the sunlight
or slept for more than hours
yet remains possessed
by something ungodly
to create revolutionary works
to thrive with words
a linguistic orchestra
the world is over
yet he writes
writing a grocery list
The Truth Is Hard To Hold Onto
She sends me lyrics
often
when she feels
they relate to us.
What we have been through
about jagged pain and
not healing love
and sufferation.
She feels she cannot sum it up
and capture the moment
by speaking or creating
but by finding
locating
searching.
She often thinks of me as
the aesthetic type
a curse of sorts
standing over her
as the ultra critic.
Yet she does not realize
how truly articulate
she really is
how truly beautiful
she really is
how truly poetic
she really is
how truly tragic
she really is
how truly powerful
she really is.
She has a way of saying things
and creating things
that makes me feel naked
revealing my under parts
parts that most have not seen
but she sees me naked
she sees herself naked to me
all retaining this quality
a Trueness that
I will not ever possess
I am just more dodgy.
Conundrum
Why do I love her
yet want to
fuck more women
Why do I want her
to feel the same
yet end up with me
Maybe I’m a sadist
or masochist
I have not quite figured
it all out
All these books fail me
don’t think but live
An Ode to a Beautiful Woman
You walk like
you live in New York.
I like that
the way you walk
is quite different.
The way you walk
around Mount Vernon
on a Sunday
is much like the way
another woman
would walk down
Manhattan on a Saturday.
Admiring your slick heels
and revealing small bits
of Celtic letters placed
on the curve of your spine.
Hidden secrets of your cheekbones
a language never read
by most common man
a quest for you.
Sunglasses hiding
an identity
and pieces scatter
as I try to speak
but I kept walking
you had me for a moment.
A Not So Great Cocktail Story Or A Really Perfect Story For A Bad Cocktail Party
I know a friend who told me about a guy. He had a fear of death. He would talk about it when he was speaking about what he had to do. To die was always somewhere on the list. He had a sort of crippling fear of death. Avoided doing a lot of things we do daily or are doing now. He lives a life avoiding meat, no booze, no women. He would spend nights pacing worrying about death. He could not sleep until he spent a couple hours pacing up and down. My friend had to sleep next to him and would be up all night as he walked. Worrying and thinking. Thinking and worrying. Sweating and than a cold breeze goes through the room. Than finally a couple hours left. I dream of death we all dream of death but we are not quite so obsessed. I often dream of other people’s death or imminent death and I fail as the hero. That’s my complex but this fellow would walk and walk and pace and pace not sleeping worrying about death. Until one day he died in his sleep. How great is that?
Book Fair
A poetry reading
should not make you feel
like you were attending a funeral.
The only thing missing was the casket.
It’s quite amazing
how many literary
companies, magazines,
organizations are there
when you feel this city
does not really care
about its writers
or readers.
There are a lot of silly
pictures that help most
avoid the endless
process of reading.
I like when the folks
from the senior home
come over and laugh
about men who call
the president an idiot
a shocked silliness
almost campy
a reaction to anger
a reaction to stimulation.
I like the old hippies
that speak of conspiracies
writing books on these theories
draw crazy pictures and diagrams
that do not support research
a lack of scientific deduction
but they like to talk
the ones that have their own radio show
doctors who paint cars
hungout with Hendrix
and Joplin and Oasis.
Why do most of these books
smell so funny.
An Observation On Environment
I sit at my desk
2:12a.m.
The only sound
Is the fan
From an AC unit
Blowing
And talk radio
Stacks of cds
And records
Scattered on the floor
Newspaper scattered
The white walls
With minute holes
Concentrating
On placement
Perfect phrasing
Slight devices
Tweaking precisely
Madness caught
Hysteric typing
Random chuckling
Typing mashing each key
Like a pianist
Adjust the tone
Reduce metaphors
Trim the fat
Taking the words
To heart
Putting the mind
In place
Like wrapping a package
For a friend
Running Into A Person From High School
I cringe
avoid eye contact
shirk back
and be swift
direct avoidance.
Too late to bow out
caught in a conversation
of who are you
how are you
oh you, Yes you.
I never liked you but
I cannot be so rude
so abrupt
so callous.
I feel my life still revovles
around music
and art
and women
chasing women in circles
this makes me happy.
He hides behind a wedding ring
probably a couple kids
a career a traveling salesman
I wanted to bring up how you never liked me.
How we never had more than this conversation
for four years
how I know you do not even remember my name
but your SUV sure looks shiny
you seem to represent everything
about our generation that I stand against.
Talking about his house
and responsibility I neither want
nor need
he begged for exploits of mine
but I refused his eagerness
to take my soul vicariously
pleasant partings, ta ta.
A person
writes
contemplating
silence
a hand stiffens
stead pace
mental mechanics
grind
just as brakes grind
in my ‘79 pinto
6pm space shower
immediate doom
emergent occurrence
only one person
can save the world
the man writing
the man painfully writing
blocked from the rest of the world
his window shades are down
he is contemplating articles
as the world is about to be covered
the urgency of most people
rush to the supermarket
or some outlet
end of the world sales
but not the writer
drowning in a caffeine surge
sleep deprived
for two days this man
has not even seen the sunlight
or slept for more than hours
yet remains possessed
by something ungodly
to create revolutionary works
to thrive with words
a linguistic orchestra
the world is over
yet he writes
writing a grocery list
The Truth Is Hard To Hold Onto
She sends me lyrics
often
when she feels
they relate to us.
What we have been through
about jagged pain and
not healing love
and sufferation.
She feels she cannot sum it up
and capture the moment
by speaking or creating
but by finding
locating
searching.
She often thinks of me as
the aesthetic type
a curse of sorts
standing over her
as the ultra critic.
Yet she does not realize
how truly articulate
she really is
how truly beautiful
she really is
how truly poetic
she really is
how truly tragic
she really is
how truly powerful
she really is.
She has a way of saying things
and creating things
that makes me feel naked
revealing my under parts
parts that most have not seen
but she sees me naked
she sees herself naked to me
all retaining this quality
a Trueness that
I will not ever possess
I am just more dodgy.
Conundrum
Why do I love her
yet want to
fuck more women
Why do I want her
to feel the same
yet end up with me
Maybe I’m a sadist
or masochist
I have not quite figured
it all out
All these books fail me
don’t think but live
An Ode to a Beautiful Woman
You walk like
you live in New York.
I like that
the way you walk
is quite different.
The way you walk
around Mount Vernon
on a Sunday
is much like the way
another woman
would walk down
Manhattan on a Saturday.
Admiring your slick heels
and revealing small bits
of Celtic letters placed
on the curve of your spine.
Hidden secrets of your cheekbones
a language never read
by most common man
a quest for you.
Sunglasses hiding
an identity
and pieces scatter
as I try to speak
but I kept walking
you had me for a moment.
A Not So Great Cocktail Story Or A Really Perfect Story For A Bad Cocktail Party
I know a friend who told me about a guy. He had a fear of death. He would talk about it when he was speaking about what he had to do. To die was always somewhere on the list. He had a sort of crippling fear of death. Avoided doing a lot of things we do daily or are doing now. He lives a life avoiding meat, no booze, no women. He would spend nights pacing worrying about death. He could not sleep until he spent a couple hours pacing up and down. My friend had to sleep next to him and would be up all night as he walked. Worrying and thinking. Thinking and worrying. Sweating and than a cold breeze goes through the room. Than finally a couple hours left. I dream of death we all dream of death but we are not quite so obsessed. I often dream of other people’s death or imminent death and I fail as the hero. That’s my complex but this fellow would walk and walk and pace and pace not sleeping worrying about death. Until one day he died in his sleep. How great is that?
Book Fair
A poetry reading
should not make you feel
like you were attending a funeral.
The only thing missing was the casket.
It’s quite amazing
how many literary
companies, magazines,
organizations are there
when you feel this city
does not really care
about its writers
or readers.
There are a lot of silly
pictures that help most
avoid the endless
process of reading.
I like when the folks
from the senior home
come over and laugh
about men who call
the president an idiot
a shocked silliness
almost campy
a reaction to anger
a reaction to stimulation.
I like the old hippies
that speak of conspiracies
writing books on these theories
draw crazy pictures and diagrams
that do not support research
a lack of scientific deduction
but they like to talk
the ones that have their own radio show
doctors who paint cars
hungout with Hendrix
and Joplin and Oasis.
Why do most of these books
smell so funny.
An Observation On Environment
I sit at my desk
2:12a.m.
The only sound
Is the fan
From an AC unit
Blowing
And talk radio
Stacks of cds
And records
Scattered on the floor
Newspaper scattered
The white walls
With minute holes
Concentrating
On placement
Perfect phrasing
Slight devices
Tweaking precisely
Madness caught
Hysteric typing
Random chuckling
Typing mashing each key
Like a pianist
Adjust the tone
Reduce metaphors
Trim the fat
Taking the words
To heart
Putting the mind
In place
Like wrapping a package
For a friend
Running Into A Person From High School
I cringe
avoid eye contact
shirk back
and be swift
direct avoidance.
Too late to bow out
caught in a conversation
of who are you
how are you
oh you, Yes you.
I never liked you but
I cannot be so rude
so abrupt
so callous.
I feel my life still revovles
around music
and art
and women
chasing women in circles
this makes me happy.
He hides behind a wedding ring
probably a couple kids
a career a traveling salesman
I wanted to bring up how you never liked me.
How we never had more than this conversation
for four years
how I know you do not even remember my name
but your SUV sure looks shiny
you seem to represent everything
about our generation that I stand against.
Talking about his house
and responsibility I neither want
nor need
he begged for exploits of mine
but I refused his eagerness
to take my soul vicariously
pleasant partings, ta ta.
# posted by Bobby Bobson : 11:27 PM
