Poems, Poems, Poems,
Magnetic spots on diskettes,
ink spots on paper,
words flung at the walls
or
held within
or lost
like those great paintings
of olden days
which were stored in the dampness
of the basement,
like the missing Van Goghs
which had been
used for archery practice.
Words scattered like rice at a wedding,
like
pigeon droppings,
like smoke which drifts and dissipates
in the crisp morning air.
Poetry is like the breeze which ripples the flag.
Just for an instant
the flag defies gravity
and
we notice
***
downsized
I hear voices outside my cubicle
they are talking work
they have no work talk for me
for I am being downsized
I was big
I was busy
I was useful
now I am small
for I am being downsized
i have almost nothing to do
…….i hear people passing by my
cubicle…
i recognize their voices
and say to my self…”that’s so and
so” they are keeping them..
.they are worthwhile…..
I hear them talking
about work……
I am
jealous
Oh I was so big
I carried the company’s future
on my broad
shoulders
I walked with other giants
and spoke of 12 hour days and
reports to even bigger giants
now long
gone
there’s no
telling how long it will take me
to get enough self-confidence
to get
another job.
i may have had some once.
and self-respect.
so long ago, i
don’t remember any more
so let’s go
downsize my ass
and get me the fuck
out
of here
(get yourself out of here you fool)
How did you come to this
a downsized fool in a downsized cubicle
in a downsized world
eating downsized shit
***
and so I sit
alone
yet never alone
for you are here with me
and these black and white scribbles which we call words
join us somehow
and make the frozen winterland the same somehow
as the balmy beaches
and the fact of our locations,
the very facts of our lives are
somehow joined in these
intentions of greatness
and of course not knowing even what that is, we
we
we
try
and we
we
we
fail so here we are again
in the winterland, on the beach
with this inability to say just what we mean and by
the very nature of our confusion we
we
we
try again
***
futures
and now my love, these words
painted in an imperfect world
cannot be more than
graffiti on a subway wall
but is Wordsworth
not graffiti
on a subway wall
is Hitler ever dead
ever a burned corpse in an old film
ever dead
ever waiting
or
in the matter itself
always there
the laws of science say that all is decay
all is decay
so what are we to do
what is the element which is our catalyst
try anyway
that is what we are to do
say it anyway
do it anyway
be the ball
***
