YES, CRAZY ACCELERATES

Marxist, Nationalist, Feminist: The Art and Politics of Frida Kahlo

It’s more Orwellian than that. Since you
Went crazy on that idea they sold you,
Everything about this idea is crazier, still.
Move more plants to your window sill.
Increase your dietary fiber. Don’t watch that show.
Don’t believe them. They don’t know what you know.
Don’t listen to them. You have the right
To not listen to them. I told you that last night.
Throw money over the wall.
When it comes back, it won’t look like the climate at all.
Just find yourself a particular brand of clothes—
It’s not the same thing as what everybody knows.
Disagreement with them has never been a danger—
Until now. Ask the park ranger.
You know, the man with the funny symbol on his shirt.
I told you what it meant. Don’t be a flirt.
It will take years for this policy
To work. Don’t believe poetry.
After I make love to you, you need to listen to the man
Who can make scientific decisions faster than the grocer can.
That’s right. You took that class. You don’t have to hide.
Be proud. Wait, what are you doing? Get back inside.
Age isn’t everything, but remember
How old you felt when your heart was broken last December?



WINTER THREW ITS SHADOW OVER THE RIVER OF MY YEARS

First Light 3 Original winter river sunrise painting | Etsy

Winter threw its shadow over the river of my years.
I only lived one third of my life: the months
April, May, June and July.
August was too close to September—
When the year started down into darkness and coolness to die.
Drinks were poured and merriment was forced
In the prison of those dark days. August
Had days like fall, and the darkening fall filled my heart
With gloom. I grew melancholy in the last days of July,
Grieving for the blossoms of May,
Opening buds reaching for the sky,
And the hopes of April,
And June’s longest day.
I attached myself to one who hibernated,
Who loved only in the presence of love.
In a warm cave, I told her she was the one.
I was lost. I didn’t see the sun.

BRAHMS

Top Things To Do and See in Black Forest Germany - Bavarian ClockWorks

Brahms makes Beethoven sound like Mozart
And Bach sound like my right thumb.
This piano concerto runs a symphonic mist
Down this which allows the piano to come.
Now I’m lying on the bed—where else should I be?
When I was a boy, Brahms was king.
The weather was a Brahms symphony.
The movies. The woods. I heard Brahms
Telling me one day I would be in your arms.

MENTALLY ILL

For goodness' sake...watch Yuja Wang's HANDS.... - YouTube |  Classical music, Classical piano, Music love

What does it mean, exactly? Mentally ill?
Is it a badge of honor? An excuse?
Is it chords within chords played melodically as single notes?
What does it do mentally, to call someone mentally ill?
Is psychology science? Gossip? “Did you hear she was mentally ill?”
Does psychology name what we don’t understand,
And soothe what we don’t understand with a pill?
Which mood, which side of myself, is writing to you?
Are you my pal? Will you let the concerto of my inner feelings play?
Can we do this again? Will you hurt me? Is this a poem? Am I good?
If I lower the Wiener Philharmoniker will you stay?

WARNING: LOVE IS A BROKEN HEART

Art & Theology – Revitalizing the Christian imagination through painting,  poetry, music, and more

Warning: Love is a broken heart healing.
The person you are loving has invited you
To love somebody else—the person who broke their heart.
It really is complicated. She needs you to love
The person who could not give her love.
So you better be ready to love. Do you feel
You can be the cure for a heart which can never heal?
You cannot love someone you don’t know.
You stop the car. You get out. You follow the blood along the snow.

SLEEP OR DIE

Secret passage - Wikipedia

The CIA needs to sabotage great poetry—
Because there can be no great poetry.
There can be no messiah;
Everything must be stained.
If the parliament votes for the assassin,
The son of the assassin will be king.
And what will you do about it?
Everything is already everything.
The surrogates scrape the chair on the floor.
The heart under the floor will never be heard.
The evil politician will never be seen as evil.
The CIA pays the scholar who says, “that’s totally absurd!”
It is absurd. And they laugh over it after lunch.
You don’t sleep because God doesn’t sleep.
Please, sleep, so your face is smooth,
And you blend in with the robots of the crowd.
Don’t worry. Sleep. Your heart’s too loud.
There’s nothing more to say. The CIA
Hires D.C. photographers. Read all
About it. The CIA just ended journalism.
Opera and symphony were voted down.
You don’t believe me? There is a door somewhere.
And they’re there, just sitting around.

NON-REVIEWABLE

ROCK BOX SPORTS EERILY PRESCIENT IN SUPER BOWL PREVIEW…CALLS BIG MANNING  TURNOVER AS KEY TO GAME | Rock Box Sports

The Orwellian NFL has plays which are “non-reviewable.”
In plain sight of millions, teams which lose, win.
Games are rigged. Throw a pick on purpose. The master plan
Is ratings. The NFL is God. Sore-losing is the only sin.
Worship the quarterback—He is the Son of Man,
The Dynasty, the Holy Spirit—that’s how trembling fans can tell
Crazy luck is holy, and the products sold will sell.
Is this why citizens accept their fate?
A rule? What rule? Shhh. It is too late.

WHEN THE SCARED BECOME SCARY

US riots 2020 – News, Research and Analysis – The Conversation – page 1

Victims are sometimes ready, victims are sometimes prepared
To suddenly turn scary—because victims never want to be scared.
We shall not be scared—it has nothing to do with hate.
To be scared is scary—the scared have more weight
Than anybody else. Our leaders warn when victims wait
Too stupidly, too long, then fear has conquered hate.
The arming of the scared. That certain swinging gait.
When the scared become scary,
When the scared become scary, too—
What is this? This is when I no longer recognize you.

THE POEM WHICH SHOWS YOU I’M HAPPY

Andrea J. Smith's exhibition at Australian Galleries – MELBOURNE ART CLASS

The poem which shows you I’m happy—
What could be more important than this?
Put misery on the scales, the history of misery,
Miserable history; nothing outweighs the loveliness of bliss.
But how can I prove I’m happy? Is it love?
Or something even simpler I’m feeling here?
Lazy and sleepy, okay with death, a complete and total absence of fear?
The television on, but I’m not watching, children
And spouse, not having to worry about me;
Together, a rapt coziness; imprisoned, yet free.
It’s an illusion, isn’t it? It will not last.
But wait. No. I’m happy. I am. The poem.
Is the poem finally proof? Because this will never be the past?

I WANT EVERYTHING

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I don’t care about those sex surveys—

I have you, the most beautiful.

I try not to think about ugly people having sex.

This includes philosophy by those who are ugly—

Philosophy by those who have nothing to do with beauty!

I don’t want the ugly to hate me. I still have fantasies about my ex.

The professional charges a high fee. That’s what every sucker expects.

The education realm, where people sit around,

Is where patients work.

You’re not a poet?  You can be a wacko clerk.

You can’t impose the highest on anything.

Everything, and everyone, exists.

Try to be the highest, and they’ll mock you.

“You write like Nietzsche. But I must insist

You use footnotes. And, if you mention me again,

I’ll coldcock you.”

EVERYTHING STRUGGLES

DANCE IN A PAVILION 1730 FRENCH PAINTING BY NICOLAS LANCRET REPRO | French  paintings, Victorian paintings, Canvas art prints

Everything struggles to be what it is

By being what it isn’t.

You say too much, you weigh too much,

You don’t weigh enough,

You are too nice,

You aren’t nice enough,

You’re too concerned with time,

Not concerned with time enough,

You are too charming, you believe

In things the rest of us

Try not to believe, but cannot,

And therefore we hate you even more.

You are the extremes we hate

By loving us too much. In their infinite

Wisdom (meaning infinite torture)

These extremes are beyond you,

So you are never anything close

To what you are without clothes,

And nothing goes with that, or goes.

You are combinations

Which seek more combinations, despite

Your secret desire for the One,

Which never happens—

Except once, very late at night,

When you were alone, not with the one

Who should have been there—

As you come up short, daily,

The sands running out mundanely,

Which is your fault, for trying to be

What you never are, vying to be,

Inside a crowd, which thinks less—

In its own putrid, political mess.

You need to compare

All, now, to what is no longer there,

Too sexy, never sexy enough, longing

To be the best, never the best,

You, you, that person I see

Was never, never, never free.

WHEN I WAS SMALL

Amazon.com: Giacomo Girolamo Casanova N(1725-1798) Italian Adventurer Line  Engraving 1885 After A Contemporary Portrait By Francesco Casanova Poster  Print by (18 x 24): Posters & Prints

The truth might prevail in a while—
But what prevails right now is guile.

Casanova is not who you think he is.
Rosalinda broke his heart—he lost the best,
And in revenge and rage he seduced the rest,
Or pretended to—he wanted Rosalinda to see,
But she didn’t care, and wouldn’t look—
So stories to hurt Rosalinda were put in a book.

Nothing we think is true, is true.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, she loves you.
Did you hear? You’re a little like Casanova, too.
You want to believe in a flat earth and God—
After all, a ball in space, and gravity, is odd,
Compared to the sun you actually see.
Rosalinda is beautiful, but now she has to pee.

Stories have reasons behind them when they’re told;
Everything was better when everything was old;
Everything in the world gets worse;
Only ignorance wins, since the first
Good news, when everything was born,
Ends—the news has nowhere to go but down.
The truth:—we don’t wave, we drown—
Must be hidden or we’ll get depressed;
The first word must always be the best,
The first hello—when nothing was before—
Is the best hello—when life started,
That first first, but then, everything leads
To us—cheating, jealous, dying, broken-hearted.
Pity ignorance. Ignorance, more ignorance! I have my pride—
But times have changed, I’m alone. And Rosalinda lied.


YOU

Image result for mt auburn cemetery

I assure you things will be alright—especially in my verse.

You say, “God, give me a drink; things are going to get worse.”

I memorialize in my poems the trees and the flowers.

You think, “Come on. Really? I sweat over my garden for hours.”

I dedicate my poem to the paths which disappear behind graves.

You laugh, “The cemetery? Kisses! I know what he craves.”

I dash off poems to your smile, your eyes, your bright skin.

You worry about boredom and headaches. You think you don’t fit in.

Then you leave me. My dear poems become annoying, at last—

You tell me: “You are too happy. Your poetry is too vast.”

But when you find, years later, by accident, the first poem

I gave you, shyly, from underneath my coat—

There it is, still in its bright red envelope—

You don’t throw it away. But softly you say to yourself, “Really?”

I LOVED YOU

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When you were not passionate, you were boring,
You were puzzled by love. And school.
But things are better, much better.
Now you’re a passionate fool.
That wasn’t supposed to work, but it did.
Passionately you unscrewed the lid,
You got help from others, you looked inside.
You’re influential, you’re loved, you’re famous!
Quick! You goddamn fool! Hide!
First, breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Then, you’ll be going to Rome
To meet one of your lovers
Who comes from a broken home.
Why did you do this to me?
Before anyone knew you, Rosalinda,
I loved you passionately.

“THE STUNTED CONCRETE MOCKS THE CLASSICAL”

Banks of a Canal, near Naples, c. 1872 by Gustave Caillebotte.

When the poem gets the last laugh

(Rosalinda, you know it will)

Civilization returns.

Writing takes precedent,

Not selfish, worldly concerns.

But my writing teacher, walking slowly, says

“It must be clear that a particular kind of life

Is in the poem.” Seamus Heaney

Comes to mind. The young poet

Sits by a window, and, with forced metaphor,

(A “pen” doesn’t “dig”) declaims

On his father’s rural domain,

With words like “curt” and “blunt” and “bog,”

Fart-like words to solemnly look back

At childhood’s “gnash” and “fat” and “spittle.”

The ponderous description of a frog—

The odd things that scared this helpless Irish boy

In a kind of Wordsworthian joy.

Is Romanticism coming back again?

Are there traditions which do not die?

Do we find promethean Shelley

At the bottom of a heath?

Singing to dung?

Piles of books still rain down on the young.

They’re “digging” for the “new.”

But Eliot’s Tradition, the one we study

At the recent end—

Will not change. Nor will Wordsworth. Nor will you.

Nietzsche said rebellion is nothing but sorrow,

And all humans are gnats.

But oh, what a gnat! A gnat who knows how to play guitar.

Shelley sings.  Now that’s what we call a star.

BECAUSE I GUESSED I WOULDN’T KNOW

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Because I guessed I wouldn’t know,
I wagered zero.
I won—by adding nothing more
To my lucky score.
The only category I knew
Was the one about you,
And since I found the daily double
I made ten thousand without any trouble.
Who Is My Lover? What Is Love?
What Is the light that spreads light above?
What is “there isn’t any sorrow?”
What is “I will know everything tomorrow?”
The rest is a blur.
The contestants on either side
Of me? I don’t remember him, or her.
My host spoke to me. The wide
Studio doors of the set
Were open. I haven’t given an interview yet.

LOVE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE REAL, GENIUS

Emily Dickinson | Poetry Foundation

 

Love doesn’t have to be real.
This saves money and time—
No diseases, no betrayal, when you plead your love in rhyme.

No contract, no promise, no deal;
No sweaty palms; no doubting, hopeful heart,
Just throw your life into rhyme and art.

There are ways nature wants it done—
And society has ways to make it fun.
In the end, nature has her way:
Clay melts if it doesn’t make more clay.

Life conspires to kill romance.
The boorish are invited to the dance.
The beautiful are brainless; you want someone new.
A poem will never be sent to you.

Why should love be real?
Must you have her to feel
Love? Those disgusting to you
Love her. And she might love them, too.

You don’t need her breast
Pressing against your breast.
You’re a genius. Your breast
Has poems. For her.  And all the rest.

ACROSS THE FRENCH PLAINS

Pictures of France - Beauce

Across the French plains
The tired wind curls up before it rains.
In a tattered diary I write
One more poem tonight,
Having no interest in what’s happening in the cafe.
I’m happy. I wrote seventeen poems today.
The actors rehearse.
In my mind they’re doing a whole play of my verse.
But they’re not. That’s Charles, who doesn’t care
Who wrote the play. He acts
As if the whole world were free of facts.
Actors are free. No one tells them what to do.
Well, at least for Charles, this is true.
When he comes near
He smells of beer.

THE UNIVERSE

Planet Jupiter #Planet, #Jupiter | Jupiter planet, Planets, Jupiter

The universe with a quaint view
Is the one the Christians have fashioned for you.
The cold depth of space
Surrounds a sunnier place.
Upon her perfumed barge
Cleopatra sits. But Jupiter is very large
And moves through space at an awful pace.
No angels live there.
Scientists have bad news.
Do you think the Christians care?
With strange notes the best composers
Play a more elaborate blues,
Which in the higher notes
We almost imagine a heaven floats.
If Elysium is over in an hour
We then imagine a different flower.
The poets wake us. Excited. Let’s go!
Look! We have feelings
Which counter what the scientists know.

A MEMORY OF LOVE

Pisanello - A Prince of the family Este as falconer | Medieval art,  Renaissance art, Medieval horse

A memory of love is better than love.
Love should have nothing to do—
Those who have loved will know what I mean—
And a memory doesn’t require anything
But viewing, and feeling what it is to remember love.
Yet when I remember the scenes of love
Which belong to you and I—
And sometimes we remember something new
When remembering,
Even when, in ecstasy, we remember love—
Even love changes, even when it religiously slumbers
In dreams of perfumes and sighs—
I remember I was in love, but you
Would ask—gently, but still you would ask me—to plan
And do a few things, because you said, I was the man.
I gasp as I remember this new
Part of the memory.
You were not in love, were you?

THE DEAD REFEREE

Spokane artist Travis Chapman blends internet humor and pop culture in his  offbeat paintings | Arts & Culture | Spokane | The Pacific Northwest  Inlander | News, Politics, Music, Calendar, Events in

The league, not luck, determines the winner.
The church, not you, determines the sinner.
Belong to the larger group:
You’ll get falsehood, a credit card, and soup.
Nothing in the world hides
But that hiding itself decides.
The pleasures of simple pleasures grow
Because simplicity never faces no.
You took a walk, and everything that’s true
Was on that walk with you.
When symbols attempt to do more
They are not symbols anymore.
Not your wife, not your daughter, not your son
Will love you, you are the only one.
You sought ecstatic pleasures, and learned
Whatever burns is burned.
The dream of talent is a false dream;
The result is what they make it seem.
You love below the eyes
Where you alone are in the darkness of sighs.
To be an individual
Is this: to cry out, bitterly, I am not beautiful.

I THINK I AM GOING TO WRITE A POEM TODAY

Artwork by Henri De Braekeleer, Vestibule de la maison du peintre, Made of  canvas | Dark art drawings, Interior paintings, Painting

I think I am going to write a poem today.
By stating this at the beginning of my poem,
I guess I am pumping myself up, the way poets
Once did when they began their poems
By asking for help from the muses;
This is just a more casual and modern way to do it.
By not only doing it, but explaining why I’m doing it,
Is further proof I’m a modern poet,
Or perhaps I’m not a modern poet—
But this is definitely a modern poem, isn’t it?
And I don’t see how a poet can be anything but modern
If he exists inside a modern poem.
So there it is. I’m trapped. No muses.
Further, the whole preface of the poem, based on
“I think I am going to write a poem today”
(Now I’m quoting myself—is that post-modern?)
Is a preface this poem has no intention of escaping from.
The preface is the poem. Don’t you think that’s true?
I don’t need to invoke a muse. I only want to talk to you.

AND NOW WE KNOW

Biden quotes priest's hymn 'On Eagle's Wings' in victory speech | Catholic  Courier

And now we know a political win
Always requires deception.
And this is never understood—
By the principled and the good.
Heaven is innocence, and a good snooze.
But hell stayed awake. And now, we lose.
The double agent is the best of all.
The “republican” makes sure the republicans fall.
An empire with a king—who all obey,
With the discipline of an army—still rules today.
The United States was not supposed to win.
The Empire will never let it win.
In 1814, the capitol was burned.
The Empire smiled. The slave yearned.
The Empire knows how to divide.
It knows, it knows. A mile wide.
Democracy, which argues and debates—
Never decides if it loves or hates.
Democracy attempts to compromise
Virtuous nos with murderous ayes.
We eventually arrived at a place
With no policy attached to a face:
The citizens don’t know who they are
Because compromise has gone too far.
The nation with a soldier’s discipline,
And loyalty right up the ranks,
Does pretty good with guns and tanks,
But those wars we managed to win.
Because we see tanks coming.
But this we didn’t see coming.
A digital enemy, with loyalty and temptation,
In the middle of the night has done something to our nation.
Communism inside of capitalism, grew.
This is not the communism we knew.
The deep state is especially deep.
Under the radar, the influences creep.
The ending of Rosemary’s Baby recalls
The controversy outside in the halls.



MY IMAGINATION MUST END

Games And Toys During The Tudor Era That Were To Die For... Literally

My imagination must end,
Though it may be the best thing I’ve got;
I must stop thinking life will get better.
It will not.
My imagination must cease—
Believing life will improve
Gives me no peace.
The future is what most of us love;
Hope makes us almost happy—
But if I accept things will get worse,
Like this young, calm, prose
Thudding into verse,
Despite my deep familiarity with poetry—
If I can throw out hope and block the future out,
Now will be my ultimate happiness,
This easy present, my joy.
Tomorrow, I die. And so it is best
To let me dear imagination rest.

LIFE IS LAYERS

Life is layers:  Faith, first,
Keeps away the worst—
Flux, which destroys
All hope. The random chaos of the odd
Would drown us, if not for God.

The odd reigns in so many places—
The speaking human faces
Who look serenely into your eyes
To convince you of lies.

The second layer? Clothes,
We wear castles, to protect us from those
Who gaze with eyes which also destroy—
“This is not me, this is where I live, boy.”

Keep your eyes on my lavish life—
Which is my monument: pride, the third.
More odd than odd. Diabolically absurd.

The fourth: The quick birds sing.
The squirrels, in the park, feed and play.
That’s the layer I need.  Since you went away.

I KNOW WHAT THE YEARS CAN DO

Franz Xaver Winterhalter | Portrait of a Young Woman in Profile. (Circa  1867) | MutualArt

I know what the years can do—
And I have guessed what they’ve done to you.
I loved you more than everything; your name
Was my definition of fame;
I still freeze when I see—
In ink: Clarissa Botticelli.
I know what the years can do.
Now let your name be you.
Love is such, I feel the same
When I see you by seeing your name.



BORED

Thomas Van Stein, Waterhouse Gallery, Impressionist, Santa Barbara  landscapes, Santa Barbara Nocturnes, California Landscapes, Santa Barbara  Fine Art Galleries

I was bored into enlightenment,
I eased myself into treasured sleep.
Boredom produced long dreams.
I’m bored. But you think I’m deep.
I watched the fire sleep
Just to start it up again—
I wait for your sigh
As I secretly count to ten.
I drive you out of your mind
Because you think I don’t yet love.
Your slender, perfumed boat is moored
To the long wharf we pace
At midnight; do you know the beautiful face
Which looks best in love is the face that’s bored?
I cannot help you. I’m bored beyond belief.
And yet in the back of my mind I notice something.
You are too beautiful. I am that thief
Who robs you of more than you are; who makes great
All that’s forbidden. Don’t talk. I hate
That we are normal, that you keep coming back
To problems—I’m bored with those. You lack
The stamina to do
What needs to be done to this person you pursue.
You are starting to become bored with this, aren’t you?
Let me show you how that works. The rain
Has arrived just in time. You will miss your train.


MY IRANIAN GIRLFRIENDS

The Ozymandias statue - James Lawton

They were half-radical, smoked occasionally,
And hated to be interrupted—just like me.
I had read things—bragged I knew the State Department fix,
Knew the Ayatollah was really MI6.
My Iranian girlfriends
Didn’t seem Iranian at all—
What is Iranian?
In this political version
Let’s call them Persian.
American, blue-eyed, and tall,
A student of English poetry,
I discovered quickly they didn’t like poetry.
Why did they say they did?
They couldn’t fool me,
Or they didn’t want to; they had a tendency to kid,
So it was funny after a while.
They were not poetic as much as pragmatic.
They had professionalism, taste, and style.
In an effort to be all things in one gesture,
And transcend all poetry with one smile,
They easily seduced the American in me,
A slob compared to them. They seduced me, totally—
Except for the one part of me that was the English poet,
And that was how I hated them, wouldn’t you know it?


WHAT POETRY IS NOT

Marie Antoinette with a Rose Artist:Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (French,  Paris 1755–1842 Paris) Date:1783 | Aesthetic art, Romantic art, Classic art

Seeking information on the rose
I studied it in books of prose.
When the artificial rage abated
I found my rose domesticated.
I could not find her in the wood.
In a glass, by a curtain, she stood.
The one I loved is no longer wild;
She is by furniture beguiled.
The world grows in a flower pot.
If you would learn what poetry is,
Never assume this is what it is—
Study only what poetry is not.
A syllable from a simple voice
Was my initial choice.
The hollering of a dog,
The repose of moss on a rotting log,
Cluttered up my mental list.
After I read you a poem, we kissed.
The beautiful grows in a flower pot.
If you would learn what poetry is,
Never assume a rose is what it is—
Likely this is what poetry is not.

I NOTE WITH JOY

1740s, File:Arthur Devis - An Unknown Man with His Daughter - Google Art  Project.jpg | Vater tochter, Vater und kind, Klassizismus

I note with joy my daughter is careless,
And bosses her boyfriend around;
He is handsome, but she is not impressed;
And so this paradise I found—
Knowing my daughter will be happy
And never suffer a broken heart.
None in love was happier than I.
Failing, I pushed into new poetry.
If you cannot love, give the part
Able to love to someone new—
Wisdom will impregnate her bones
And she will be happier than you.

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