An introduction to the poetry book: "After Meeting the Fox"
Below are excerpts...
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Excerpts from "After Meeting the Fox and Whatever"
Whatever
Whatever goes into this poem
let it spring knowingly
from where ever the ghosts and dreams
of useless nights hang out to dry
behind the stove.
No, excuse me,
Whatever goes into this poem
let it appear unbidden
from behind a dark door
secrets not yet tainted by memory
something not suspicious
but clearly marked by wild sanity
to which we will give our dancing feet
when it arrives.
Whatever goes into this poem
let it jump off cliffs
into clear soaring space
let it fall, an eaglet,
growing wings in response to the wind.
Let it exchange memory for mystery
and charm us into being again.
No talk of God Tonight
I remember a time traveling alone,
going down the mountain road on foot,
laying on the white stripe
in the middle of the night,
mesmerized by the light,
of thousands of stars.
How can we not say
life is an unbounded joy,
gazing off into infinite space.
The Civil Servant
There are two or three things he could do well.
He sharpened pencils with an eye for precision
unknown to his colleageues.
The way he cleared his desk each evening
would make a maid blush with shame.
Then there was the way he drove his car,
never violating a single law of the road,
never an accident on his thirty year record.
His penchant for order
left him exhausted
at the end of each day.
No women would stay with him
more than a year or two.
At the end, the shiny polish on the pistol
with which he took his life
was a marvel to his kinfolk.
Excepts from Poetree Incognito
Political Pun-ishment
Preposterous power-seekers perpetually pushing petty prevarications
on a pathetically pusillanimous populace perennailly preoccupied
with personal profits and the price of petroleum.
A Question of Morality
If it is a question of Morality
we don’t want to hear about it.
We want answers, not questions.
We follow the moral equivalent of a complete
abstraction disguised as the investigation
of the antecedents
that fell out of the paragraph
before the last page
of the prior document
submitted by the suspect
indicated as a person of interest
in the assassination
of the dominant paradigm.
A stone cold mystery at best.
He is a Gauche Poet
He is a gauche poet. He has no trouble picking participles from a dockside warehouse, or loading a flatbed truck with untutored verbiage. The resonance of his lines arrives at a preprogrammed dissonance so subtle that it makes us wish for an immediate resolution to the minor discord, followed by an amazing crescendo of well-staged harmony. The words flow forward, then stop, step sideways into a rented alley filled with mixed metaphors and brazen analogies, much to the discontent of his best critics.
His poems will be howled at the moon at the next eclipse and will be slipped into the dictionary of undiscovered wonders long after the light grows dim in his eyes and he collapses onto the floor from his wheelchair into forever.
Long live poetic abandon!