unadulterated shit (Owned by Donald Smith of St. George, New Brunswick, who loved this poem so much he paid me $25 to buy it in about 2001. MY 1ST OFFICIAL SALE!
i sat beside a mountain brook
and wrote a book
and when i read what i had written
i was smitten by the
inconsequentiality
of reality
the words did not make sense
and the plot was much too tense
for the mood and for the tone
which had shown the anti-idealism
of surrealism
so i threw it page by page
into the water which did rage
with laughter at each word
till a bird flew by and read it
and shit on it
a poem of silence
silence
noises unheard
not one word
no peep nor cheep
nor footstep creep
nor bleep!
alone
no one home
but me
does anybody be?
i cannot see
to be alone with silence
is to be alone
in the universe
not knowing for sure
if anyone else exists
this could be frightening
and border on insanity
but not necessarily so
silence can be:l,
peace of body
peace of mind
peace of soul
just me
and the universe
in cosmic harmony
be
a ball of words |
sometimes i wonder
is it really worth it
to spend my time on rhyme and verse
to curse the world and all its faults
to praise the beauties i can see
and then i answer
it is
to me
even if not to anyone else
for myself it does wonders
to calm a confused mind
and straighten out my head
moments like these
are ever so rare
in our galloping world
that to curl myself up
into a ball of words
is a pleasure
of uncommon delight
the miracle |
pictures are worth a thousand words
but poetry is worth a million
so on i write
into the night
cringing in fear
with insanity near
breathing new life
into words as old as death
isn’t it amazing
in all the length of time
humanity has spent upon this earth
someone can still combine
words into lines
that never before have graced
the printed page
miracles
are all around us
if only we had
the presence of mind
to see them
epitaph at birth |
please
allow no man
to be my teacher
for he cannot live
mine life for me
therefore
allow me not
to be his teacher
for i cannot live
his life for him
but
let him help me
where he can
and i shall help him
wherever i can
because
we are brothers
let us remain that way
following my desire
like an eagle on the wing
soaring ever higher higher
trying to capture sun and stars
following my desire
like a mole beneath the earth
burrowing blindly through the mire
digging deeper than before
following my desire
like a leaf cast off by tree
like a snowflake softly falling
sliding down then gliding up
seeking rest — yet stalling
so i live my life each day
to opposing goals i do aspire
learning good exploring bad
following my desire
enigma
why do i see
divinity
when everyone i meet
sees mere humanity
is this a cursed blessing
or
is this a blessed curse
like a near completed puzzle with
just one piece to go
but the last piece doesn’t fit
that’s how i feel
i cannot fit myself into
the puzzle of this world
no matter how i stretch and strain
this enigma lies beyond my brain
to remedy
significant language signs
bark
goes bacon in the dead of night
awakening my neighbours
who pound on my door
who pound on bacon
whom i see nevermore
propound a baconism
if you know one
(i don’t
sorry
i didn’t mean to wet your appetite
or rain on your purr-aid)
a pound of bacon
for breakfast
a bunch of bananas
for lunch
and for supper a steak
with roast potatoes
mushrooms
and you
you are my night
if i were a woman
would you be my knight
i mean if you were male
wearing mail
i might add
twenty-two plus twenty
makes forty-two
but even douglas
doesn’t know the question
from adam’s
garden of eve
words
have no meaning
but the meaning i give them
when i write them
down
and if i believe that
you’ve got some prime property
(canada grade a bacon?)
in florida
to sell me
but i have no money so
i can’t buy that
so why do i continue to string signifiers one after the other (as if they were words in a sentence {You’re Guilty!}) in a vain attempt to communicate my thoughts to some imaginary being called ‘reader’ (providing they get past an even more imaginary being called ‘publisher’) whom i cannot be sure exists and who has no conception of me (that was my mother’s job)
i am a person
or
at least i was
until i wrote these words
at which point
i became
a poem
and that me immediately vanished
vanquished
by the ticking of the clock
ripped asunder
by the tickless time bomb
squashed
as under the foot of a flea
who got swept down the gutter
of gravity
imagine the coincidence
the play i saw last night
concerned gutters
kate and annie
maggie and polly and ellen
(they made a lot of offal jokes)
is that what inspired this crap
crepe-paper pancakes
inedible solid liquid
indigestible
barf
a lunar tune |