A homeless man gives a homeless man
a winter coat
pockets full of cigarettes and candy bars
totally efficient about
An angel is an activity of the universe not a person
An organ of light
perceives the light
A poem hinges metaphysical, words to the poem
like flesh to the person.
Idaho passed a new law. Every small business
must employ a hermetic so possibly I just got a raise
from zero wage to minimum. Now no one in Idaho
will ever starve. Socks for everyone! Coats all around!
Life, dust animated by gusts of space wind.
Even the practical do not avoid calamities. Keats,
the poem also forms the urn's interior half full of
ashes and bone clinkers. A body should not be called remains. The Hubble Telescope
viewing nebulae registers unprecedented photographs until
collided with or declined. Me?
I'm falling apart not washing
Away! Leave the washing to the waves
During the winding down of the clock
the poem holds open possible existence
The words of the Large Poem unfurl
The world will be made up again and
again we lay down the shroud on the ground as a blanket
A musician not unkindly said, “Poetry is a dead art.”
Yeah, lots of poets share futility like how
dead people are useless and how living
always turns out
sometimes incredibly lonely
laying on the floor of the hole. Dust, black air,
striated walls: what little is perceived
mumbles one's difference from the cave-in
No human activity, no toil, no act dead
or vital has ever striven more.
By a living art, does one mean included in economic transactions?
Making what cannot be avoided?
Does he mean poetry has no audience?
Don't worry (he will not read this) I am not performing
drawing lines towards secret shapings and their stops
Upon the ear poetry acts
and hearing is the last sense lost