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November 26, 2013

 Note: Poïesis is etymologically derived from the ancient Greek term ποιέω, which means “to make”. This word, the root of our modern “poetry“, was first a verb, an action that transforms and continues the world. Neither technical production nor creation in the romantic sense, poïetic work reconciles thought with matter and time, and man with the world.- Wikipedia (I love this citation from Wikipedia so much, I don’t even care if it isn’t true.)  Also: “Apoielogy is a smooshmanteau of “apology” in the classical sense of a defense or argument on behalf of, and “poiesis” which is as we just learned, used to mean “to make.”



So you don’t really like poetry, eh?

well that’s okay because poetry

speaking through

in that way that she do

said to say she doesn’t usually think all that much of you


or else she’s got her hands full of liquid metal

or the kettle

boiled over  or whatever

but she thought you should know at a minimum:

That she’s so dangerous

despite being entrusted to the indifferent care

of cynical English teachers


of greedy carbuncular record producers

bopping callow pop singer seducers

She’s survived.

She watches over the raging

sundering calamities

the quotidian tragic comedies

and  every impossible, doomed, love affair

with equal degrees  of care

Softer more supple more yielding

even than water

memory’s tidal daughter

she undermines mighty towers of thought

subverts  our addictions to character and plot

bends the bar cages of school, culture  and language

cranky old lady front porch harangues

against the nasty and the nice

things that we do

against the nice and the nasty

things done to you

With incandescent burning blues

she said to say that she’s used to


electric guitars

shooting stars

furtive glances

feral dog dances

a stolen kiss

a seismic shift

nomos logos chaos eros thanatos

trotting foxes


catching falling


weeping statesmen and nocturnal bears

Baptist preachers and wild hares

shamans’ drums  inviting worlds to come

hippie prophets and internet frauds

living loving dying  breaking against impossible odds

each of  them

every fucking one of them


The One True God

of natural selections

spirit connections

seven directions

divine interventions

infinite sixth senses

plunging us begotten

into the riptides of desire

swept into the ocean of  Sacred Fire…

To: All Her grievously loved,  betrayed, lost, forgotten, re membered bastard progeny,

These things are Sent.

Just to get Her point across.

And that point is this:

(It’s not what you’re thinking.)

Of the Ten Thousand Names

each of us can only know a few

so despite what she said before

in that way that she do

even if you turn your back on poetry

she won’t ever

she cain’t never

turn her back on you.

From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. When I finished reading this, I let out a Whoop! and grinned from ear to ear. I wish I could hear you give it voice. Someday… next time you read…


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