Making sense

is what we do
2 plus 2 and blue is blue.
Still, when I love you’s the deal
making sense is so untrue.
Human insight messed by love
Scrambles thought waves
like a ball struck dove.
Making sense don’t make me laugh.
To be alive is a constant thrash.
She says, I say
Come on Babe,

Trust me , I’m your slave.
Making sense don’t be a fool
All it does is leave you screwed.

Rethinking a poem

Every girl I ever knew
reminds me
of every girl I ever knew.
Same soft
Same light
Same waiting every night
Same body
               soul
Same end
               hole
and

Every man
            dancing eyes
            little boy sighs
           just one of the guys
           stroking the same
totem’s pole.

This poem came out of my brain some time in the early 80's I think.  And while I believe it's meaning perfectly clear some friends and poets suggested maybe I could further elucidate why a person in the 80's should feel so objectified.  So,


The Same . . .

He thinks,

Why is it that
Every girl I ever knew
Reminds  me of
Every girl I ever knew?
Same soft
Same light
Same waiting every night
Same body
          soul
Same end
          hole

And she thinks,

Why is it that every man
Reminds me of
Every man I've ever known,
   Same dancing eyes
   little boy sighs
   Same just one of the guys
   stroking his
   totem pole.

And then they both say
            at
The same time

the same words they always say . . .


Well, that doesn't make things clearer to me, it makes it a different poem.

Well

Well, well well well.  Here I sit in blogger hell no longer sure the mechanismismo is, well, working.
 But lurking in my own shadow
I see a shimmering glimmering of hope amidst a sea of doubt.

A life raft, a last straw not about to break.

Too late?  Hope       not the knot            it used to be.

Knuckle-headed

Noises jammed my scan
Static lightning mistakes
Messed my plan
Pit stopped, I smelled
This as another “I can”

Attempt at self reconciliation
Amidst the
Thought traffic jam.
“Ear-ran.”
I ran,
Feet heart beat fast
I reached at last
A place where thoughts
and acts
Cannot crash
Un back lash ash to ash.
Smash.

Thought . . .

Is constant,
Is clear like glass yet
Chiaroscuro in effect,
Is swift and yet
Turbulent as air in flight,
Is rough like a bare
backed, bucking bronc’s haunch,
Is wasted more often than
Not,
Is quick and dead
Before there’s time to think,
Is here and now and then gone
In a

Blink.

Making love to Watergate

Nixon and I and you
Sweating at a rapid rate.
Reprehensible
Utterly sensible
Lacking declensionable
Nouns
To possibly clarify the
Inter – relationships
Of we three making hate to Whitewatergate.
Clinton and you and I that is . . .

Have you . . .

ever thought
“A slice of you could
Grow a clone”
“Maybe two, . . .
Each with lives
They could grow
Alone?
you could sin
They atone.”
Have you ever thought . . .

Ah well, from here on in you’re on your own