A Collection of Poems
*put titles of poems in quotations ("W", "Schrodinger's cat said meow and died", "Oedipa") because serendip was not allowing underlining or proper spacing.
Yes, the letter on my chest is W.
And no, I prefer not to be seen that way.
Yes, I will wear perfume and powder my chin.
And no, that does not mean that I don’t know the difference between epistemology and epidemiology.
Yes, people usually powder their nose.
But no, the chin can be just as shiny.
Yes, you consistently absent-mindedly apply everything stereotypically “feminine” to me.
Oh no, that tone of voice you are using is the same as my father’s.
Yes, oh yes, I did just liken you to my father.
"Schrodinger’s cat said meow and then died"
Are we not human
If we do not seek?
Are we not American
If we do not hegemonize?
We pray to a being that does not speak
We preach to a community that does not listen
We search for meaning in an intangible world.
We destroy each other and in so doing hurt ourselves.
Artists are smart.
All we can do is welcome it.
cry at it.
and paint some more
Each stroke is a rebirth.
Yes, I said rebirth.
A reconnaissance into an observable, livable world.
With no desire for truth.
No expectation for an answer.
No waiting for the canvas to call out,
Yes brush that way.
No the other way.
What do scientists do…
Spend their hours trying to eek
out of that meaningless void.
Searching for patterns, testing hypotheses
Like fumbling for matches during a black out
While holding a battery-less flash light.
Like children making sense of unfolding eddies
Jimmy says, perhaps that’s why the fish aren’t biting.
have only theory
Gravity, so familiar
Remains nothing more than theory
But of course we always know where we keep the matches.
will not tuck you in at night
Like stone cold grandpa
Living life according to those rules
Without room for expansion
With nothing nice to look at
Leaving no room for pleasure
Despite perhaps the relief of masochism.
But even if you are a masochist, where is the fun in that?
I have no right
Talking about masochists.
I am a hedonist.
I like 60 watt
I like honey
I torture myself when I see light,
Not when there isn’t any.
And they say artists are tortured.
At least artists are honest
At least they don’t claim to be explaining
Dropped like flies they did.
Once upon a time i slept in a tower bounded by pillows and thorns.
Now there is only air.
My tower is beginning to crumble.
London bridge is falling kind of crumble.
Stones loosened by ...
Even the gargoyle.
He is my friend, no foe.
His ears shred by unassuming, retched crows.
The wig gone.
My hair long.
The door unlocked.
I can leave
My feet no longer move