These are the days of holy rage; the nights, of broken thunder. The numberless
specific insanities that pull your mind right under: total potentiality.
You know, don’t you? Who can’t gain weight, got no appetite yet bloats enthralled by aims and goals.
As for myself I’m vanishing invisibly, can’t sleep at night yet before evening’s day I am all awake.
This is the place where drunks stumble and lurch; slur my daylight mind in ancient doorways, forever with us potential derelicts.
For everyone except yourself, fear is another tightrope.
The solution? To disappear, jewels of truth lighting my way through empty towns, hollow streets: no deals.
I leave everything behind that would not touch my sunken eyes.
In this I am revealed: the blind, the wounded thief.
Who would desire to be the orphan and limping stepchild, ascribed with insulting logic? The garret-ridden genius undiscovered
and resentful merely aching to be loved once again by the monster chasing populace, no myths allowed.
Hadn’t I assumed this debt was once and always my badge and refuge?
I did not want these signs of brilliance undermined and botched due to lost affection: or losing what you never had, a haunting;
to become another apocalyptic howling at the moon, screaming at the living who never laments or complains. Bet on that.
This unborn flesh torn by desire and the desire-less worn in physical distances I contemplate as loosely as lost spirit encounters
where self-consciousness bows to tie the ribbons of my shoes.
Ah vision, life.
Passion was and is the trick. Can I ask do you care: how many dollars
for how much, myself versus your objects of impersonal lust. Me with my eye trouble,
my insomnia, my depression: meager symptoms.
Poetry the next disavowal by such sodden lugs and lumps abandoned in coffeehouse condominiums, the esthete shelter of those trapped
in desolation defined by poverty or riches, dissatisfied with a life of anonymity.
Give me revelation, give me free: it is the same as Shakespeare’s who could not be you refusing recognition and discipline as differentiations of which
you await disclosure by committees yearning to assume importance as they impose standards of taste as if owned by vengeful tools who cannot create.
These are the arbiters of your heart and souls.
Requiring a new death in each moment of possible waking: a pleasant death, for T.V. minds.
The rest: morbidly dull, virtuously sadistic, and wholly masochistic as a result of not cornering the market on sensitivity.
Lot’s wives. You have had my company for so long you even believe we have not been fucking mid-air.
Dreamers of an everywhere downtown, the neon nightmare: dummies, doppelgangers, jerks, stooges, nerds, zipper-heads… plus a few second
banana intellectual epileptics, emotional fascists, and spiritual tyrants.
None try to borrow a cup of sugar, although I can’t really be sure of the neighbors.
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”A bold and refreshing approach to modern poetry, one that breaks the rules when necessary and yet conforms when it suites. Highly recommended…”
”If all the reader is looking for in a poetry anthology are the poetic ramblings of someone trying to impress with their command of language or a gently rolling stream of consciousness then this probably isn’t it; but for poignant and thought provoking insight and new ideas, one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean Baker’s ‘Silence Louder Than A Train.”
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