mY secreT ponD

My poetry is like stove in the summer
Or fan in winter
It runs against the popular tastes
And has no practical value
Basho


IT IS I TOO


It is I too, I run against authority
I Quarrel with the mayor I Sue the postmaster
I tell my teacher that she’s teaching the wrong thing I even tell my mother that I did not deserve her
(And she cried when I did not regret saying the same statement all over again).
What is it it me that fans when things are cold that heats when everything is so warm?
To want the undesirable
To desire what cannot be imagined
Of those that do not exist
And get inside where there are no exits
To love the unlovable
To give up something so important and honorable?
To set aside love and love the lovelessness of a meaningless locomotion.
To sculpt from mud inhuman forms
To read that which must still be deciphered
To swallow that which is vomitable
To stay where others wanted to leave


I have a taste for the unpopular
I voted for the loser
To side with the weak
To speak to those with less sanity
To settle for what is unsanitary
To lick despites
To risk whatevers
To go the whenevers
To leave the dead bury themselves
To enter the narrow gate
To light the post in the midst of day
To sail when the winds are too strong
To smile when your loved ones enter the great divide
To wish happy deaths for friends gone by
Empty chairs and empty tables
To spit on these sorts of things
To be myself and yet to be so unhappy
To be so happy and yet not knowing my name
To speak none where my mind is so filled with sense
To be unknowing about what I do know
To be so funny when seriousness demands
To have worked so hard and to die so untimely
To write without any opportunity to be read
All these…. and the senselessness of these all
To be able to say thank you very much
Now that all of you are dead and gone & all I have are empty chairs and empty tables
(In the manner of Les Miserables)
In some pages of nonmindedness
In an island of don’t touch me
This I say I thank you
So Long.