these are not poems

some-warm-and-windy-where,

in between an ancient Native American chant

and a Hank Williams drunken warble,

I’m dancing an infinite figure eight

into the heart of timeless space.

 

these are not poems,

they’re the winged screams that escape

when I hit the intersection of all lines.

 

soul booms

that slit the throat of Death,

and run right through a briar patch barefoot,

roaring like a newborn dragon,

giggling like an ancient infant.

naked Life

with no excuses or apologies

to clip wings or declaw trembling middle fingers.

 

some-strange-and-precious-place,

 The Ramones play from a desert mountaintop,

strange reptiles, bugs and birds

dance to their candied belligerence.

children, dressed as cowboys and Indians;

donkeys and elephants;

western soldiers and middle eastern insurgents

play IED patty-cake to the rhythms

of tickertape lies and political alibis.

hark! a staff is raised from the crowd,

a sea parts,

a talking serpent cries,

angels and demons make love on the beach,

lightning flows from the giant mouths of cavernous prophets,

thunder shakes my guts like wind chimes in a tornado.

rich grovel before poor,

eating their odds and ends from candle-warmed cans.

no steak. just potatoes.

 

lines intersect!

everybody, everything, everywhere howls

in strange forever harmonies.

 

glass behind my eyes shatters,

space noise pours through.

 

these are not poems.

they are the whole universe exhaling through my broken pen.

blood of stars splattered across the sunset's shocked face.

tiny chunks of eternity

handpicked from god-teeth

and expelled from curled stone gargoyle lips.

 

exploding candy hidden in the Communion tray.

a pumpkin pie mouseketeer tap dancing on a black mass altar.

 

irreverence on every known level,

dressed in a fake mustache and chartreuse pantyhose

watching us all through a sniper scope

from the bell tower of all Creation.

 

lines intersect.

BOOM!

 

another century spirals through blackhole pupils,

and the changing of the guards concludes.

 

when it happens,

bury me someplace remote,

and never come to visit.

 

I'll be ready for a few thousand years of quiet

because

these are not poems.

 

Author's Note

soul coughs of a madman with storm drain eyes
and a volcano mouth

Reviews

[roarke]

yer right, it isn't a poem.... vision, observation, insight, prophecy, hallucinations, divination's, cosmic dowsing.

awaken the muse, grab hold of the veil, ride the ride of war weary Valkyries. Drink and slumber in the halls of Valhalla, drown and sink in the depths of the deepest inferno.
Poems..... meh.
Precious moments at Club med this ain't.

[EMF]

Not A Poem? Here? Where Poetry is the Holiest Of Holy Grails (I'm going to get such flack for that...) Well, I do know what it is. Superb. Bouncing ideas, cincepts and phrases that spark the mind to juxtopositional life, firing up electons that curl the toe nails back and expose one raw nerve, while others sooth balm on tired wounds. Fire in the veins and brain alight.

Thank you. My Day is complete

[adytum]

I love your green panty hose. It is difficult to come up with novel juxtapositions
but you do fairly well. less is more

[Kenneth The Poet]

This isn't a poem, it's a f*****g declaration on everything we hold sacred, even our own skepticism.

[SkinlessFrank]

no, they're even better than poems

[Amy Bumpas]

Yes, the words of a madman, and so many stories you paint
in one, blurring them all together, bloodied, to fit your
own insatiable hunger, and so they roar upon a mountain
top, probably under a full moon where Pagans practice,
your chants heard through the wind...

[Tim Lion]

I don't know what you write. The word poetry is overused. You're a poet with the tender soul of a rusty chainsaw, and a heart like the engine of an old Ford. lol!

Dug this s**t most:

these are not poems,

they’re the winged screams that escape

when I hit the intersection of all lines.



soul booms

that slit the throat of Death,

and run right through a briar patch barefoot,

roaring like a newborn dragon,

giggling like an ancient infant.

naked Life

with no excuses or apologies

to clip wings or declaw trembling middle fingers.



It's like a poem .... er...um....WTF ever it is that you write, by itself.

[Robin]

sometimes it takes awhile for that space noise to settle

oh yeah , almost forgot , everything is a poem ..

[Emily B]

so many thoughts and none of them made it to the review box . . . too stunned to leave much of anything

probably they are poems in that case