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The Terrible Truth

I have been marginally involved (as in marginalized) with the poetry scene in the Mendocino County area since about 2000. It’s strange how self-proclaimed anti-elitists tend to form their own little elitist circles. And their only bragging rights, really, are that they had enough money to be able to self-publish through a vanity press. Wow. Hmm. How impressive.

Several members of the anti-elitist circle of elites here in the area have tried to pin me to a particular school or discipline, which I’ve felt ambivalent about. On the one hand, this indicates that they’re at least aware of me and perhaps even respect some of my efforts. On the other hand this illustrates that they see my work as beneath theirs because it does not conform to their idea of what poetry should be.

Ah well. Reflecting on all this recently sparked this small write.

The Terrible Truth

Try not to confuse me
   with the Formalist
       the Classicist
           the Structuralist
               the Neo-something

                       I am merely an explorer
                   a piece of yourself left
               beneath the rain-soaked coals
           of a distant childhood
       campfire

Posted on by EAT

To the Postmodernist

To my mind, postmodernism represents, above all, the birth of modern mediocrity, especially with regard to poetry. It has its points of interest, which I take and use in my own way and for my own purposes; but the rest I happily leave.

To the Postmodernist

your hands wave
       in a sea of swaying hands
   through cold dark waters
       kelp shifting under swells
lost in formation

your voice howls out
       against rocky cliffs
   drowned in the crashing parade
       of white-noise waves
lost in the drone

your words flash
       briefly into view
   on the tops of curling waves
       a moments notice
lost in the tide

Posted on by EAT

Hush

Residential homes and psych wards aren’t always the best place for a child, no matter how out of control he or she may seem. No, many of these places, with the Nurse Ratchets that work there, are little more than psychiatric death camps.

Hush

i remember silence
 walls made of glass
   mattresses of chain-linked steel
 even dreams were impenetrable
cemented in concrete

you dared tell me
 this is all i would ever know
   poison in my veins
 mold across my eyes
brittle cracked nostrils

one day strapped to a bed-frame
 i saw when i closed my eyes
   that you weren’t so formidable
 your skin fell off in ribbons
and you choked bubbling blood

years passed
 but i learned to quell your violence
   to relish the scent of tea leaves
 as i sit with the world
your silence only half remembered

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

Posted on by EAT

Mauve Desert Rose

The idea for this poem actually came to me when I was 14 or 15. I saw it clearly. As the years progressed I realized how much I related to this imaginary flower from the id, and finally at the age of 30 I’ve tried to make it work.

Mauve Desert Rose

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.