Friday, September 14, 2007

poor-will-whip boy


my mind is a whip-
poor-will into shape
after pulling back and snap-
ping me into life. That bird
so often sits upon
the window sill: yet I cannot see
I can only hear his sweet song
And when it chooses to sing
the darkness flees into
an openness that I cannot quite address
So I try at least to skitter free
not smashing windows
nor looking through them
Although the world outside is
My museum
That you may enter with
Paid donation that I
Usually just give a couple pennies
Nothing that could
possibly put me in the poor house
For I have no willingness
To support the arts
Rather than to walk around dim halls
Expressing gratitude for how they inspire me
Rather than giving them anything
Other than what I am looking for
I only pass through the exhibits
I pre-planned on the itinerary from the map
That I was given when I entered
the museum.
Strange artifacts I have no use for
I discard with my eyes
Paying closer attention
To the Rodins, Buddhas and Cezannes
Samurai Swords and Guns
I ignore the Americana
I hit the Beats that I intend
Confessionalist Postmodern Man
I have grown not just stark
But also raving, pusillanimous and mad
The building shards and splinters
below my thumb and hand
But I do not smash states
I incubate Them
inside my head
Yet that bird is still perched upon my cheek
Whistling forcing a
ref-lex-icon o'graph of sweet speech
To each of the things I choose to be viewing
My slang slings each thing upon myself
like violence done upon up-in up-off
with sling shot loaded like a catapult
to launch full force onto a lovers legs
to hobble their appendage indexes
into a sling made with straight boards
and bandages
setting the bone the way
You would like them to walk or wake
Strings strung on each finger tip
Making sure the style they hold a pen
Rubbing off calligraphic sin
Portending to glove the mannequin
He was not god merely


Now Poor Will
Thought he could become an every day
Steer driving
man he had no use
For museums
Or even mausoleums
He could desecrate
those graves where foolish men locked themselves
He had too much to do too much land to till
Too many bull he had to steer
His herd mentality did not mean
He would see what others would see
But rather he had steers to feed
He had many, many mouths
To feed none
of which would grow
such seed from visiting any monastery
bric-a-brac of bricolage
He carries round the field now in a sack
Splaying fields with fruit and branch
He fashions machinations with his hand
Rather than using brush or pen
He would rather go to galleries
And piss or spray paint on
All the sculptures and or the paintings
Telling them to till
His land


round and round
the merry-go
I do not get up
I just sit down
I do not stop it step on
the playground
I just keep spinning
spinning, spinning
spin-art whimsy wishing
rice cap-
sizing my
capitulating coercive desiring to con
dense the world around


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