Image result for little girl praying in painting

There has been a lot of talk on equality and identity politics,
But what will always be true
Is no identity can possibly approach the presence of you.
The ego is bigger than anything.
You may like song if you don’t know how to sing,
But if singing is what you do,
No rival can ever sing better than you.
Ego is bigger than sympathy; no one is really sympathetic at all.
Go on. Be alone. Take, or do not, take this drink.
Every belief in equality will before the other, fall.
Describe your rape to your feminist friend: they secretly think,
“Was he cute? Didn’t you enjoy it at all?”
He fell in love with the love of his life but that lovely love was a fail:
I’ll pretend you raped me. And you will go to jail.
This is the horror we discover is true:
We face love alone. And this can’t matter to you.


Image result for self hatred in painting

We hate ourselves the most,
And love others, in despair:
Who sing to our shadow as it lies on the ground:
There, our misshapen head, here, our ungainly hair,
A warped silhouette stretched across the earth,
Which has no ease, no past, no arc, no birth,
Ourselves, but not ourselves! We hate the sound
Of the voice we own, and the mirror that looks in our eyes,
And yet they love our face, and fill our face with sighs!

I hate myself the most,
And love you, in despair:
I need to love you, the more frequently
I doubt you, and you seem not to care;
I cannot love my voice, my fate, my ghost
Who knows myself that none can see:
Myself, hiding behind paint or poetry,
I cannot love my face, my voice, my eyes,
And yet you love my face, and fill my face with sighs.

If I stop hating myself,
I will not love you.
My love, you are smarter than love.
That’s why you hate me like you do.



When you and I were together, we rarely made a sound.

We didn’t like it when others were around.

We went into the quiet car and quietly held hands.

We knew touch goes beyond what thought understands.

Understanding dies every time a sound is made,

Unless it’s music, sinking into a darkening shade

Like this aching verse, sinking, so it almost makes us afraid,

So pleasant the visit and the touch

Of our hands, that we don’t notice the noises of the train that much.

When drunk and loud passengers annoy you,

You curse them excitedly and I ask you

To lower your voice so the drunks can’t hear.

They might hear, and though I laughed, it was a genuine fear

Because you were quietly mine, not meant to mingle or fight,

Especially trapped in a train car late at night.

My arm around you was quiet, and quiet my hand,

Which played with yours, and, when I kissed you,

That was quiet, too;

Good, therefore, in a way that was easy to understand.

We sank into kissing in the quiet car

Until my stop.  And then we remembered who we were.

No. We remembered who we were not.

We got off at different stations. Character. Plot.

We each went home to a different star.

But we won’t forget the quiet of the quiet car.

In the quiet car you have to be quiet, it is true,

But now, in the middle of the kissing, I have something to say to you.





Image result for shakespeare sonnets

I thought love had to do
With all the intricate things I found in you.
I thought love was the only time
You could be the single reason for my rhyme.
But now I find love is waiting by a door,
Saying the right thing, struggling. I don’t like it, anymore.
I thought the whole point of love was you,
The truth, looking into your eyes, mesmerizing, your eyes, mesmerizing and true.
I thought that love had to do
Nothing—but look like you,
Under me, entirely lying,
And under you, me, sighing and dying.
But if love has to be these other things,
I’ll still love you and for you my poetry sings.


Image result for wedding in renaissance painting

I want the world to know

I love you. The world must know.

Knowing causes love, as love, to grow.

Love can be a secret appetite

And think itself love, but secrecy,

And all that crawls inside the night

Feeds delusion; no poetry is worth the name

Unless it bring the poet fame.

The unknown has only the unknown to blame,

The unknown is the greatest shame.

The death of the poet himself is bliss,

But the death of his poetry is hardly this.

His poems should be read and loved,

Not by springs and pools of the dove,

Where nightingales sing aloud, out of love,

But in the eyes and ears of men,

Who memorize poems, so they can be loved again.

If the world thinks you are wrong,

I’ll correct them with my song.

There are poets who celebrate drink,

And seem sensual and wise

As they write that soon tomorrow

Comes, ending happiness and sorrow,

So go ahead, and drink today,

And sacred love must hasten away.

But I will not drown myself in any set of eyes,

Loving this one at dusk, that one at sunrise;

Love is not a brief instant.

Love is not what we quickly want.

Wine can be a paradise,

But love that lasts is best; sensuality betrays

Tomorrow, and all the ways

We died in our yelping yesterdays,

Hoping for an arrow

To repel all sorrow.

The known is what we know;

And all that we have, we can have before we go,

In the understanding of the going.  Only then may we

Live in our poetry.

Girls who are socially needy

Circle around men, the lustful and greedy,

And find the hell of secrecy

And shame. When a girl is crying for help, trapped and alone,

Raped in the trivial unknown,

A secret shame which imitates death

A secret lust hides in the invisible breath

Forever. Of poetry never read. Secret life is truly dead.

After the shame, we know the truth: love is how much of love is known.

Marry in the sun. True love does not wish to be secret, or alone.











I am, today, a god

To myself. If a god made me,

That god, too, is a god, and if a god is a god by what he makes,

He is not a god by what he takes,

But a fortunate god who fashions, invents, gives, and fakes.

I accept all mistakes

That made me, fashion me,

And fool me, and make me feel

I am a god. Unless I am a god thinking of a god, I am not real.



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Don’t thank me; I gave you a good time

Because I wanted you forever;

You left me. Now, hearing bird songs and holding a feather,

I do the one thing I know how to do: write rhyme.

Pathetic, I know, but I once saw a poet treated like a king

Because he had a bird who could sing

And that bird, too, flew away.

Now I walk up the palace steps under the sun

To meet the king. I am read by everyone.

Thanks enough, when love tells you, Thanks. I cannot stay.




I can love for a thousand years—

But not for a day.

I am sick with a fever,

A fever that interferes with work and play.

I think of the universe—

Stars, and the singing gale.

When I attempt to love the earth,

O breath of wind! I fail.

I dream of the universe—

Stars, and my fortitude.

I said goodbye, forever,

Because once he was rude.

I slide through the graveyard,

On numerous grays of dawn,

By the beautiful statuary,

Adorning the lawn.

The oak and the sky are different shapes,

But always agree in tone.

Where the thickest grass is,

You’ll find a home.

I haven’t changed these thousand years

Beneath that stone.







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I am confused by the TV news.

It seems to choose to show me what is real.

I know enough that in my heart I feel

You and I can’t quite agree on what we feel.

So we sometimes have an argument, or two.

I am probably lonelier than you.

My country, which I love,

Once had, as its symbols, sunflower and dove.

Has it changed? In the station, now, they push and shove.

I am confused by the latest news.

Yesterday, a new policy. Different. New.

I am probably lonelier than you.

I would rather stay home with tea and cat;

People confuse me, so I prefer that;

Men have wants. I prefer the purr of a cat.

Yes, there’s always something wrong. A rat.

I know. I see online you have friends. Even a love, or two.

I am probably lonelier than you.





“And in other news…Bill Clinton’s private locker room talk was made public today. And Donald Trump will now be your leader.”

Dignity lives far apart

From matters of the heart.

I would be anxious in a submarine,

No matter how clean:

The dark waters above my head

And above that, the sky.

Watching a beautiful woman walk by,

Erect, and lovely, with a flashing eye,

He kept this thought under his hat:

Only a pervert wouldn’t fuck that.

Only a pervert could deny

Desire for that, as it passes by.


Image result for working class hero is something to be

“Some of you sitting there with your cock in your hand/Don’t get you nowhere Don’t make you a man” —John Lennon, “I Found Out”

Women never fall in love with men.
They fall in love with wishes.
Sure why shouldn’t women fall in love with a man who doesn’t exist?
What is a man? Someone who jerks off into their fist.

A man is a plan, and also he is what he plans.
A woman is what she plans. A plan is a woman—the best plan of a man’s.
Plans are wishes and wishes are the best plans for adoring fans.

Do you see what I can do?
I can write a poem to you,
But not really to you—because other people see it, too.
I love you, but you don’t exist
Except as a plan, as a name on a list,
As someone in a picture, or someone in a bed,
Or a poem, perhaps, I was planning in my head.

The sexes exist for something higher; they don’t exist for each other.
Was Johnny being funny when he called Yoko, “mother?”
Is money funny, honey?



Image result for woman running for a train

Write a love poem. That way

Your voice will be heard across the bay;

The elements air and water will conspire

To carry the quick, insane fire

Of love and secrets; your readers

Walk on the day; they are not bottom feeders.

Let your words skip

Over the water

As you describe love’s slaughter

To love’s ears from love’s lip.

Love will always have listeners;

Love sums up all disasters

Of the refined mind;

Birth, death, and knowledge are blind,

But not love, despite what they say.

Consult the Phaedrus. Love does save the day,

The only feeling which feels and sees,

Love, the only mind which takes part

In the shadow play trapped forever in the heart.

Poetry’s articulation is poetry’s art,

And, in love, you will be weak,

In love with a beloved who is unable to speak.

So you must be the articulate one.

Go for poetry. Don’t believe the elevation of wine.

If you’re late for the train, run.

It’s okay to be late. Think before you write a line.

Since love forgives, it’s never too late to correct what you’ve done.






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I’m not leaving this planet ever.

I will always be here. My poetry

Will be read as long as the planet’s here.

You will have to leave me,

And only then, if you put my poems away.

And even then, I’ll stay.

You won’t forget what you’ve seen—

My lines of black, but green.

Now that you are getting old

With other cares, what can you say about my love that was bold?

Nothing. My poems will say it all.

My poems will treat you kindly, when you, a mere leaf, fall.

And what about these?

Will my readers go away?

These drinking coffee, and talking as they please,

Along the Champs-Elysees?



Image result for ariadne

Is stupidity sexy?
Yes, I want to lie
With stupidity in its nudity.
Nothing has to be here.
Your teasing smile after a beer.
Now let’s have some fun.
We’ll forget about the bible.
And Psychology 101.
We’ll forget about our friends
And we’ll forget about ourselves,
The advice of world literature sitting on the shelves,
We’ll forget about everything that made us so subdued,
We’ll be stupid. And nude.
Yet I don’t know if this is very smart.
Unless nudity and stupidity get you closer to the heart.


Image result for woman and man in painting

She loves what she hates—

And so she loves me,

And hating, like love, cannot be helped;

We hate what we cannot see,

For seeing is a kind of love,

And is love, in the infinite eye.

Hate obscures our seeing;

She hates me so much it makes her cry.

Her hate is a tear in her eye.

She loses love, not seeing me accurately.

She errs, she mistakes, she slanders me

In hot, passionate hate

Which resembles love; such is her fate,

That others ask, why do you speak

So much of him? Is it hate? Or love—which makes you weak?






Love doesn’t care which way the wind is blowing,

Or who is wise, or who is knowing.

Love doesn’t care which way the wind is blowing.

Let’s say you get to the theater late.

As long as there is kissing, the theater won’t ruin the date.

Your love has no levels; you love her all the time.

You two can go anywhere and find your fate.

Your love will always give you the will to rhyme.

You love her. And every line will rhyme.

There is something magically heroic about all this,

The way you love her, the way you two look about before you kiss.

There isn’t a love for everyone like this.

Conversation and care is all they’ve got.

Love is that which—loves. And loves a lot.

Love will always give you a reason to try

Everything. It may give you a reason to cry,

And love will make you make mistakes and errors

And yes that is what Eros will do.

Be careful, you two.

This love: the way I feel, everything about it, is rare.

And I still love her, no matter what everybody says.

Love doesn’t care.






I expect in these hours

You, and for the few minutes I actually crave

You, no longer will I be brave.

You will make me sad. I will be your slave.

So I’m afraid these days must go on

Without a signal, without so much as a look,

And that’s why you see me reading a book,

And why these years are crowded with flowers

I pass; because in those hours,

When I expected you,

A minute to a century grew.

Every beat of my heart was a signal to you,

But no one heard them—only me.

And now these flowers grow by the sea.





It’s not that great,

Out with friends, laughing, drunk, late.

I wish I had been home an hour ago,

And sure it’s nice to know

People you know and friends

Are great, but when the night ends

And I am alone, I go

In my mind to the best

I had: when I held you, and got no rest.





Stop staring. You infiltrate my thoughts.

You melt my beauty like the sun.

Stop staring. Stop loving. I will run.

I can be reached by a single look

After the bombardment of a stare.

I am crippled by a look

That carries a little bit of care;

I am wounded and hurt

By your eyes—before your fingers dare.

Spies of yours cover my valley,

Where my tent sits, with surrender plans;

Flight is mine; let poetry and mystery

Be the intrusive man’s.

I am the dish and you are the cook—

You will eat me mostly rare.

Love was made for a nook.

Your stare is like a dark throat.

I was born at night, in a stormy boat.

Life is elusivity. Please don’t stare.

Beauty has a thousand flaws;

“Look away,” the crown of all love’s laws.



Image result for killed her children in painting

“How you must think and wonder how I must feel out on the meadow while you were on the field. I’m alone for you and I cry.” Shaman’s Blues—The Doors

There is a great confusion about the genders these days; this is natural, since they mingle now more than ever; but the confusion does a great deal of harm, since romantic thoughts oppress us constantly, even if we revel in crude jokes.

One of the great misperceptions is that the female is more tender, more affectionate, more sentimental than the male. This is not true, and has never been true. Men are the sentimental ones. Women are pragmatic. Why?

The reason is simple. Throughout human history, women have borne children. In the 19th century, roughly half of children survived childhood—your own dear child drawing its last little breath in your arms: this was the one constant of motherhood—a task not for the weak; the human race would not exist if sentimental feelings rebelled against motherhood. For the most part, they did not. Women are tough. Sorrow would have made them insane had mothers been sentimental.

From simple, Darwinian reasoning we arrive at the secret. Women may wear pink frills and men blue stripes, but inside it is the opposite.

Women may doll themselves up, but the-tiger-that-feeds-on-the-lamb is the true nature of the womanly soul.

How could it be otherwise? How could the woman live through the historic sorrow of watching her own children die? Nature, the breeder, would not breed unfit, sentimental mothers. Woman is the ultimate pragmatist, while men walk the meadows and sail the sentimental seas of pretty dreams.

This is why romance is so problematic. Men want it. Women do not. Romance is sentimental and men constantly seek it as an end in itself. Women see it as a means to an end.

Take the lovely, romantic phrase, “I’d love you to want me.” It happens to come from a 1972 song, from an era when deeply sentimental, romantic songwriting was very popular, and expressed the highest genius.  The post-war boom in the west was an era in which hardships in life, including high infant mortality, were fading, and all sorts of factors were contributing to an explosion of romantic sentiment—and it is surely no accident that during this time, with the phenomenal baby boom popularity of the Beatles, that men in general were overtly taking on sentimental, or “womanly” attributes, such as long hair and deeply sentimental, romantic personas.

What are “womanly” attributes?  Such a discussion would be an interesting one, but let’s see what we can do with just a narrow piece of the whole debate.

For the man, “I’d love you to want me,” means “I get a tremendous thrill out of the fact that you love me—for the man, love is nothing more than this: I love that you love me; and here we have an infinite loop of mutual love; love for the sake of love; love loving itself with the aid of two people who are meant to love each other, etc.  Love is all.  The ultimate sentimental expression.

For the woman, “I’d love you to want me,” means “I am glad you want me to love you—because this means you are in the proper state to be highly loyal to me, and I can use this loyalty to produce children and a stable family.”  Or, more cynically, if you like, “I can use this loyalty for all sorts of things, not necessarily for children”—sure, with modernity there’s an increasing number of women who choose not to have children; yet these women will still retain the same impulses towards men; it just plays out differently in a variety of social ways—impulses which converge on the confused and increased state of gender-mingling itself.

Gender roles will elude their true identity: we see this in our example of the woman truly being the gender which is less sentimental—despite the general culture seeing it the other way.

What makes things even more confusing is that oppressed cultures will flip—women will take on male attributes, and visa versa.  A culture which is dominated and conquered, so that its men “do not feel like men,” will see this occur most radically.  Men, for instance, will become more “macho” the more their society, their country, their community, is crushed and destroyed—but the gender-wheel is such that “more male” will turn into “more female” and “more female” will turn into “more male.”  For example, in oppressed cultures, women will tend to become sentimental fools who rely on the authority of misbehaving men; we know the true nature of women is to not be sentimental; but here we see they are. Loyalty is what sentimental men should have to prove to the pragmatic woman—who requires loyalty in a father. In oppressed cultures, the man seeks and gets loyalty from the woman—which is not ideal.  This is not to say that a certain amount of loyalty is not a good trait in both sexes, but it is the sentimental gender, not the pragmatic one, who should prove loyalty.

One could respond: what’s wrong with gender identity becoming blurred?


Whether blurring should occur or not, is not the point of our essay.

Here’s the point: if men and women have been hard-wired in natural, Darwinian necessity to feel and behave in a certain way, this is sure to be a source of social confusion and pain for the individual, if unconscious shifts occur, to say nothing of the impact on society in general.

The complexity of the whole issue is self-evident; cross-gender prohibition is not the aim here—only an understanding of the larger issue.  To lament sentimentality or to censor pragmatism is not our purpose—and it should be added that any analysis of this subject should be made in the largest possible context, and with an understanding that the pieces are not as important as how the pieces fit.

A further example will help, and we’ll reference another popular song from the recent historical period in question: The Doors’ 1966 song, “The End,” the eleven minute, theatrical piece on their first album, which rode the charts in the Summer of Love, in 1967. The Beatles and Stones are the better showmen, but Jim Morrison’s shaman may finally exceed the showmen when it comes to lasting, historically significant, recorded music.

1967 is roughly the same window of time in American culture as the 1972 song mentioned above, “I’d Love You To Want Me” by the artist Lobo—a passionate song of romance, not critically acclaimed, but effective, nonetheless.  In “The End,” Morrison, the singer, evokes explicit oedipal rage and lust—and if we examine what “killing the father and loving the mother” entails, we see it is nothing more than an extreme example of the impulse of the romantic male we are attempting to illuminate: killing the father and loving the mother is the ultimate expression of that loop of love (and yes, it’s loopy, too, of course) which is love endlessly loved in a purely unconditional manner: the love of the child for its mother. The oedipal impulse is the example par excellence of sentimentality, or romance, crushing, in heightened passion, pragmatism.




Image result for river god drowns the maiden in painting

Lyric love is done with you

And lyric love is done with me,

Because I’m the only lover

Who wrote you poetry.

Love is very common

And lyrics are common, too.

But I was the only lover

Who wrote poetry to you.

Now you give me yawn for yawn

And seek a love that’s new.

Lyric love’s fee is love.

No more poems for you.


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You ask the cruel silence why

More people don’t read poetry.

The answer is missed because it’s too plain:

Look at these faces boarding the train,

Tired faces, no longer innocent, yearning, or young.

To slip and trip on a beautiful tongue

Is neither their design nor desire.

Their soul sleeps by an obscure fire.

They wear death; they lack beauty’s youth;

A poem’s beautiful truth

Is meant for a beautiful face,

Beautiful, despite age, and disgrace

Visited upon sentimental eyes

Which sees beauty killed, and where it lies.

Not pretty, they find poetry

Insults the face which neither sings nor sighs.

The torturous mountain and tumbling streams

Soak the valley, where trees hang like dreams.

Grey mist falls fast; dense green covers the lower road

As you descend, as lights into shadows lightly go.

If your weakness makes you slow,

Nature becomes a picture.

As much as you love how nature aspires,

You cannot live in her airs and fires.

You rage against the sky, but it backs off.

You haven’t enjoyed poetry—since that cough.










I am a film. I go about, trying to explain my scenery to myself. The music in my headphones must be right if my soundtrack is to give pleasure; it can’t be a song with its own agenda; it has to rise to the egotistical sublime of my life. When the Doors abandoned me, and Bittersweet Symphony and Waterloo Sunset and I’ll Be Around and My Sweet Lord and A Day In the Life of a Fool, and Mozart piano concerto no. 17 and Moonlight Sonata and Gould Goldberg Variations by Bach and Chopin and Satie and Debussy and You Don’t Own Me and Be My Baby and Is That All There Is? wandering the park under the moon, I found Brahms’ Fourth Symphony, and fell into the sea. And woke on the train home.


Image result for river god drowns the maiden in painting

A seducer is a victim.

Only victims can have victims:

For wrong begets wrong;

Distortion must distort

Discord’s beautiful song:

Beautiful, because the discord

Corrects its beautiful wrong,


In the middle of the heart which sings inside its song.

Helpless demon, beautiful in your sadness,

You hated me that I took up your helplessness in gladness.

First, the beautiful poet cries,

And then, the beautiful poet’s reader cries.

Philosophers die with ignorance

Before they make us wise.


Image result for school of fools in painting

The problem with teaching is this:

The best way to teach is to convey what is true to oneself, so that one is not disseminating second hand information; one can undoubtedly best teach what one really knows to be true for oneself, and oneself is the very proof of that knowledge. If an obese person were to teach a weight-loss class, we would laugh. A poet we pay to teach us poetry would need evidence that he is, in fact, a good poet.

And yet we are told constantly that everyone is different—what is true for you is not true for me. Your first hand truth is not only second hand for me; it may be entirely wrong for me. Someone has different genes than you do—their diet and regimen would not work for you. The poet teaching you may be good, but it would be foolish to be like them—their poetry belongs to their experience and their nuanced use of language is entirely their own.

You see the dilemma. First hand is either wrong for you or shouldn’t be imitated. And second hand is well…second hand, and could be wrong for the same reasons.

And further, the more teaching fails, the more desired teaching is—the many who do not learn seek new teachers and more failure; the ‘education complex’ feeds more and more failure and the ‘teaching industry’ is unable to face the terrible truth that the self-taught are the true learners; teaching, beyond a kind of crude furnishing of information, is impossible both within and without, in both spirit and letter.

At enormous expense, degrees and diplomas are sought, diets and exercise are tried; the growing ignorance breeds more desire for diplomas and diet books; a defensive mania is ingrained to the point where the true secrets of the self-taught are entirely pushed aside as undocumented superstition, and teaching becomes so ridiculous that new subjects to teach are invented, increasing folly with folly; unable to teach, earnest teaching of what is entirely unnecessary commences, and since one cannot measure a lack, the lack is now an even larger apple the ignorant donkey chases; and in the very wake of more ignorance and folly, more certified professors, deans and experts are created: the certified certify the certified who certify in an infinite chain.

The terrible impact of the education folly is hard to see; stuck inside infinity, people “carry on” in whatever line of trade is offered, and the misery index climbs in millions of souls for causes unnoticed and unknown; ignorance is its own salve (ignorance is bliss) and ignorance among the educating and educated classes is more happy and more ignorant, still. Bad poetry grows apace, and yet imagination thrives among the practitioners of bad poetry—the social whirlwind surrounding book publications and live readings of bad poetry whirling bad poets about in a blind, eager, p.r. frenzy is the context in which bad poetry is imagined to be good. Imagination and teaching and learning roar on with full force, not abating, but increasing, even as knowledge and wisdom and pleasure and vistas to all these things fade and decline. Of course, in a few places, good teaching does manage to occur, as long as it is not too carefully watched, and sorted, and certified, and inspected.

Scarriet now offers some advice to counter this general folly.

The truly good can, and should, be imitated. This is one of the secrets of self-taught successes. There is no such thing as an excellence or a skill which does not belong to everyone. The more successful something is, the less unique it is, and the more it should be copied.  Also, a vast number of excellent things can be copied at once, and the combinations of excellence picked up will naturally combine with one’s own unique character (which is a given) —and this is all the originality one needs. Don’t buy into this idea: since you are different from the master, or the master template belongs to a bygone era, it does not belong to you. Yes it does. It’s all you’ve got. Steal it. Take it. There is no successful poem (formally excellent, moving) or successful diet (high protein, low sugar, balanced) which is not true, or not true (with very rare exceptions) to your needs.

Trust then, in the first hand excellence delivered to you. Be suspicious of all that is second hand; however, realize that a bygone era’s excellence must be second hand—therefore do not reject this kind of old excellence for being second hand, but make its excellence first hand for you.

Avoid teaching for the sake of teaching.

And that’s it. This is all the advice necessary.

You will notice that Scarriet prints original essays—and original poems by the same author. It is as first hand as we can make it.  We follow our own principle, and glory in it.






Let that be the love: a silent understanding,

In which you, nor I, ever have to speak.

Love is too willful. Love is too demanding.

We know we loved when both of us were weak

And, for those kisses, I would be weak again,

But kissing is rude. We need understanding.

Those who know, and would speak,

Should not. Theirs is weakness about the weak.

Let everyone return to innocence and silence.

I kissed you, and have not kissed anyone since.






There is a love who makes me love

Sweetly and true

And that love is your love.

Just a picture of you.

I’ve seen you go in for dinner

With a beautiful friend or two

And then I see your picture,

And then I see it’s you.

It’s you. I never have to guess.

You have a love that makes me love,

Always looking new.

Every picture is different, depending on the dress,

Depending on the atmosphere where the picture is shot,

And the expression of the eyes always means a lot.

There is a love who makes me love

Sweetly and true

And that love is your love.

Your love is you.



Image result for eliot's sybil trapped in a jar

Life is long—too long for sorrow.
If I die, rather than face a sad tomorrow,
It’s because of life’s length;
Had it been a day of sadness, then I would have the strength
To continue, but these years
Are too much for my tears.

I cannot go forward and I cannot go back—
I am a wasp trapped in a jar.
One thing defeats love.  Politics.
My lover dealt me a mortal blow—giving me more politics than I could bear.
I cannot love again. Desire feels too far.
His official gesture killed me. I need love, but I’m too proud—and he’s right there.


Image result for man giving a woman a letter in painting

What is meant for you

Is meant for everyone.

Everyone’s love is the love that measures the love of everything I do.

I sent this to you alone—

But it belonged to someone else before me,

And it doesn’t matter if I keep it, or give it away.

It just is. It’s not to give.

I can send it to you, but I cannot give it to you, because others see what is mine every day:

Those eyes you love, and personal things in my poetry.

It is not mine. It is not yours. Nothing truly belongs to us that is ours to give.

So giving is impossible, therefore loving is impossible; it’s impossible to live

Without living the messy life of everyone.

Send you my ass? I might as well send you the sun.









Image result for writing on the wall in renaissance painting

I only know poetry.

I only know the beauty of your name.

I don’t care what others say, or what others wear.

I am not the same.

I love you, but I was never here to be with you,

Only to love you, love that will possibly bring us fame.

I fell in love with your name,

And I love to say your name,

And I do, but not in this poem,

And you know why. You know me.  And our shame.

You saw what it did to me,

When I fell in love with your name.

You don’t know how much I love you,

Because you think I want a coarser fame.

I told you you were a poet.

You didn’t understand.

This is not a tongue. Or a game.

This is not a hand in a hand.

I succumbed to the sound of your name.







Image result for marilyn monroe and the dance number

Why is there Marilyn Monroe?

She’s not my mother, but I think I know.

Here’s the reason why this goddess must come into view

(And perhaps it’s the same reason I get excited by you):

To make all men look ugly by comparison.

A vain man is an abomination.

Men are supposed to murder and kill

To protect their females. Men will come after them. They will.

Marilyn Monroe is the template of female cute,

Forcing men to wear a similar suit

Which makes them look stiff and all the same.

Marilyn Monroe is the name of the game.

She is the aspiration and the map

And every woman is her—or you’ll get a slap.

Every man has to do what he has to do.

But I cheated. I wrote this poem to you.





1. Why love fails. You like me? You must be stupid. You love me?? You must be really stupid! I can’t possibly love you. You hate me? What discernment! What wisdom! Come here! I love you! I love you!

2. What you should do during the national anthem. A guide. Stand in awe. Sit in protest. Hand on heart in respect. Kneel in confusion. Prostrate in love. Stand on your head means you would like a visa. Hand on head in spoof. Fetal position if you are simply not feeling well. Talking aloud if you’re crazy.

3. Sometimes I meet someone who looks smarter than I am, but I’m always disappointed. Sometimes I meet someone who is better looking than I am and I am always disappointed, too.

4. Life is not fair. The male is happy, even when he kills or is being murdered. The female is sad, even when she is making love.

5. In evolution, what is evolving, and why? Sharp teeth evolve. No, sharp teeth don’t evolve. What really evolves? Breeding. Roaches and rabbits evolve. But do they? What truly evolves? And why? Do we know?

6. Out Damn Scandal. Hillary supporters call other people stupid. It boggles. The ultimate irony. Or maybe not.

7. What keeps life alive? Lack of death. What keeps death alive? Lack of logic.

8. All art is nothing but this: the dead living.

9. Only one thing dies and is born. Love.

10. Argument lives forever.

11. The greatest artist tends to be the male who moves towards female sensibility without being homosexual. If you have no art whatsoever, you will probably be a female who moves towards male sensibility without becoming homosexual.





Image result for funeral in renaissance painting

Who will mourn more

When you are no more?

Whose sorrow will be worse?

Your ghost’s, crying, “not yet, not yet!”

Or your retinue’s, who will disperse

Slowly? Quickly? And who in your crowd will most pitifully cry?

Will the day of your death let

The rains come? Will there be a grieving nurse?

Who will be sadder: the world, or you, when you die?

Will oceans lament? Will the sparrows know?

What speeches will be spoken, when you, at last, whisper goodbye, and go?

What sentimental gestures are obligated to be made

When ruin puts on the human soul—

Death making it ugly—and removes it to that hole

Where every human shade

Makes its way, and the interminable sorrow

Of life ends; but we do not go—no,

Because life is a constant going—

What does your elegy know? Is sorrow the same as knowing?

Is love the thing which makes you see, at last

The one who really loved you, going

Back, just for another glimpse of you,

When life was bright, in the bright past?

Who will stay, for your death, and feel, at length, true sorrow?

Who will stay, now, to make for you, a true memorial for tomorrow?

Or is regal sorrow killed by a life too smart and quick to last?

Smart and quick never made us afraid.

Time exists. Look at this cemetery and its long, deep shade.

All is limited. Even love. When you flee,

I’ll be dying; your death won’t mean that much to me.




Image result for a train in romantic painting

I still never do that

Even though my followers tell me I should,

Making arguments on paper

Which describe the beautiful and the good.

It seems easy, the way they say it,

And it would be easy to do,

And if I forgot myself

It might be exciting for me, and wonderful, and true.

I would be on some train.

A stranger would look me in the eye.

And he would have a book.

And I would let him lie.


Image result for lady of shalott

The poet who never suffers,
Writes his poems for you,
Who dreams for whole days, and is free of suffering, too.
You wake from a summer dream, which began at twelve o clock—
When the tree’s shadow climbed the moss on the mossy rock—
You wake from your sunny sleep
And hear the distant sounds of wandering sheep,
And find all changed: darkness devouring the flock;
Deep in shadow, tree and rock;
The workers home from work,
And the moon’s cunning
Still in the running.

The poet who never suffers,
Writes his poems for you,
The moon, new,
And you, barely there,
Combing your langorous hair
As the dawn sees
Your hair in a long tease
Against the sunlight flickering in
Where you and the poem patiently begin
With a sigh in the garden,
And, upon the hill,
You going about, wherever you will.
And the misty sun, like a wall,
Covers all.




Two Male Figures Looking in a Mirror and a Putto. - Jacopo Pontormo, 1518:

1– Men DO like to explain stuff. They absolutely DO. The obnoxious and recent term (2008) “Mansplain” or “Mansplaining” —guys patronizingly explaining things to women—is based in reality.  However, if men do like to explain stuff—and they do—to describe this as offensive (the man is being patronizing) kind of misses the point.  To take offense at what is ingrained behavior is to take offense needlessly and spitefully.  Women: you sort of need to get over this.

2– Men ARE simpler on every level than women are.  Even men who excel at “complex things” excel at those “complex things” precisely because they see the simplicity in those “complex things” which others don’t. “Simple” describes both the great fault AND the great virtue of the male psyche. “It’s complicated” belongs more to the female realm. When a man and woman are having a needlessly complicated argument, to be very objective here, in all honesty, the blame mostly should go to the woman.  The exception, of course, is that the man, with his admired ability to find simple solutions to complex problems, should be able to prevent hurtful and complex misunderstandings from arising and gaining momentum. And that’s a very important exception, mister!

3– When it comes to love, men DO care about looks; they do care about superficial appearances: as much as they may protest, as much as they may say otherwise. This chimes in with their “simple” nature, which really is simple. Men are simpler than anyone will care to admit.  Looks are not important to a man. Looks are everything to a man, and this is the simple truth. A lesbian is looking for sweetness, affection, and understanding. A male homosexual simply believes a handsome man is better looking than a handsome woman. Period. Male homosexuals are just as simple as their straight counterparts: the myth of the sensitive, complex gay male is just that: a myth. So yes, the truism of the “male gaze” is true. Having said that, however, it would be wrong to think males cannot be highly romantic, sensitive, focused, sentimental, monogamous, and cannot find an interesting variety of physical attributes attractive—they cannot help their “male gaze,” but the “male gaze” can be caught, tied up, and enslaved by any savvy woman who wants to do so.  But the woman should never naively think that once she has a man, a man who seems “nice,” that this means “this nice man loves me for who I am.” Sorry, no.  The “nice” man, who seems happy in a relationship, is still thinking about looks all the time. The woman just has to know what she is dealing with, and not get freaked out by superficial signs and superficial behavior of what is not finally connected to what a man really wants—one great satisfying love, not the anxiety and trauma of lonely, partial loves.  But the “look factor” is always there for the man.  But remember, the man is simple.  The “look factor” does not have to mean every feature is perfect: there is a whole creative and dynamic aspect to what “looks” entail.  The wise woman will know how to use the man’s simple nature to her advantage.

4– Men DO like sex, and they like it quickly, and it’s all about their silly little penis, and the only thing that slows down their sex instinct is the “male gaze” which wants to take time to “look” at their beloved in the beautiful stages of undress which match intoxicating stages of increased excitement, and yes, after the orgasm, the man will feel a strong sense of disappointment at being with the naked person who, a few minutes earlier, had made him so excited, and now, after the man’s release: not so much. The man is probably the most disgusting creature in the world at this moment, wanting to move away and secretly revel in his triumph, and be free of conversation and cuddling with a being who is less interesting to him now.  Men can protest all they want (“I feel closer to my woman after making love to her! blah blah blah”) but let the sorry truth be here revealed.  Post-coital cuddling is uncomfortable for the man, even when he feels a necessary bonding with someone he loves is taking place, since bonding of this kind always feels forced to him.  A man does not feel closer to a woman after the sex act.  He always feels more distant.  And this is more true the better the sex is—but only because the law of before (excited) and after (less excited) prevails—and it really shouldn’t be taken personally.  A woman should never delude herself that a man is ever not on the trajectory described here.  Don’t kid yourself.  He always is.

5– Men want to do things for a woman, but if they sense the woman is expecting things to be done, done in a very particular way, or not done, for this or that reason, they will very quickly become disoriented and lose all desire in this area.  Men like to explain and they like to do.  But they do want a partner in all this, they really do.  Women: Disagree, advise, and suggest as much as you can.  Do not mock or resist or fall silent. Do not be a contrarian.  Because then what’s the point?

6– Since men have the “male gaze,” and when it comes to love, care only for appearances, they themselves are vain—and obsessed with their own looks.  By playing on male vanity and fear in the looks department, women, by careful mirroring, can easily own and destroy a man if they take careful note of the mirroring phenomenon and use it well: however, if the woman doesn’t care about her appearance, she cannot influence the man’s opinion of his own looks. If she mirrors him, however, with her vanity, and rewards and diminishes him in the right manner in the looks department, so that he can’t figure out who is more attractive, her or him, or how attractive he really is, and needs to hear it from her—he will feel strangely and powerfully attracted to her.

7– Since men love to explain, it is easy to attract the man by turning his love of explanation into what seems to him a somewhat annoying and addictive folly—in the woman’s eyes. The woman should listen attentively to the fervor of his mansplaining. But she should interrupt frequently to ask questions, to make him feel she is extremely interested in what he is saying, but constantly make him feel he isn’t quite explaining it right, and that he has to do a better job.  He will be exquisitely tortured by this if it is done with the right combination of interest and nonchalance—and he will find himself helplessly attracted to the woman’s superior mind.

8– Do not mirror him, in superficial terms of “trying to be a man.”  This will be a disaster.  Make him feel that you are a woman, and different from him, and make these differences as prominent as you can. This absolutely does not mean you need to surrender any of the things which make you intrinsically superior, or truly yourself—and, in fact, as long as it is established that you are “a woman” to his sensibility, you can then be as “mannish” on top of this established identity as you want, and this will, in fact, make him even more attracted to you.  Always negotiate with the man from the fact that you are a woman first—even if superficially—and then you can be anything you want on top of that, and dominate him much more easily.

9– Because men want sex quickly, explain to him that taking it much, much slower (even if it takes days or weeks or months) will give him a great deal more pleasure—he will like this because he loves things to be explained, and this explanation benefits both of you—love is nothing if not a great mingling: male and female aspects fall into a rapturous blending.  The only catch is that what is male and what is female must be understood and established first, and this will be the first step in actually making love voluntary, so that instead of “falling under the spell” of your lover, love becomes conscious and willed, and this is a far more effective rapture—both of you are fully aware that this is what you are doing and why you are doing it.  Love is then a beautiful and exciting and conscious goal rather than a slothful and doubtful entrapment. Pride will tell us that only if the lover is under one’s spell is the love real and based on how attractive one is—but this is a myth.  The best love is voluntary and benefits from both sides understanding the deep truths about each side, male and female, and the drama and the tricks that must be consciously and delightfully played.  This is ultimate romantic love, which defies both involuntary suffering and boring convention.

10– Men care just as much about breeding as women do—it doesn’t matter that the woman is more at the center of the whole process than he is.  The question of children: Should we have them?  How many?  How should they be raised?  is of infinite importance to the man.  Men care very much how the child is to be raised, materially, morally, and aesthetically.  Never fail to bring out a man’s opinion on this issue. Never underestimate his interest, or the impact it will have if his ideas on the topic of children are downplayed or ignored.



Image result for hermaphrodite to renaissance painting

Is there a female equivalent to me?
What would she look like? Who is she?
When I was a child, I painted in a smock.
In school I put ink on a printing block.

Was I a girl when I first wrote poetry?
When I was a young man and cut my hair
And found a job, no one was there.
If I were shy would she dance with me?

If I ran down the leafy avenue
With everyone getting out of work, would she pursue?
Would she chase me-who-is-really-her, if she knew?
Would she follow me into the evening until the moon
Covered by clouds and serene, came into view?


Anonymous Southern Song artist, Pipa Mountain Bird, in Fu Sinian, ed., Zhongguo meishu quanji, huihua pian 4: Liang Song huihua, xia. Beijing: Wenwu chubanshe, 1988. pl. 96, p. 131. Collection of the National Palace Museum, Beijing. album leaf, colors on silk, 28.9 x 29 cm

When did I first know

I was superior,

A creature of wisdom and dismay,

An animal who knew he was an animal

But that every animal is in his way?

Who knew the moon and the leaf

Were like wine-drinking friends,

But that the leaf and the other things

Belongs to everything that ends?

I hoped, but hoped inside my sad mortality.

It might have been when I loved the world—as it refused to love me.

I think it was when I saw complexity

As simplicity

And this simplicity felt divine

And not only did I feel this; it was mine.

Divinity belonged to me as my pleasure,

Which increased in poetry and music’s measure

In the precise manner I sang my song

To you. So for once I might belong.





Image result for poe morella

Do you know why I love poetry?

It is not the sound of it, nor the fame.

Let me tell you what happened to me:

I fell in love with a name.


All the work that goes into a nation!

I love mine as a candle loves its flame.

I love the syllabification

My citizens speak, and kiss with, and we burn, and die, the same.


But look how my eye adores

This eye, who escaped to these colder shores

Barely intact, but with a strange name

I speak and love, as a candle feels its flame,


A quiet name of many syllables,

Now quietly spoken

Into my ear of a valley between its hills.

I saw. But when I heard, I was broken.


I intoned this liquid name for a day.

A name is how my voice adores

A  voice—eternal and known—and it promises to stay.

The name my poetry loves is yours.



Image result for poet writing in painting

I will just sit here and love

While you do what you have to do.

Loving is good, since to be happy is the only thing that’s true,

And loving is happiness—before you even know what you have to do.

Being happy is the job of love;

I’m telling you to allow me enough time

To love, as I sit here, in my room, and rhyme,

And compose, on this couch, a poem or two,

And show others how to do

The same; education

Is how love teaches the nation

To do things, with sweetness and style.

What you do with a frown, I do with a smile.

What you do in agony, making work organized and steady—

What is it for?  It is for joy—which thanks to me, loved before, and is beautiful, already.




I am trying to seduce you.

I’m trying to block all your wants and desires,

The warmth, you convince yourself, which can be found in all those small fires,

The meals and the convivial laughter with friends.

I’m trying to make sure conviviality ends.

All your small pleasures must go

To make room for one you hardly know

But once, you knew desperately well.

Remember? You looked on love with a sad face.

Remember? Love had a voice and a hand and a place,

Which nothing you know has now.

You don’t remember exactly how

Love murdered your life.

A blue sky? Money? Child? Wife?






Image result for baudelaire and rimbaud and nightmare painting

She cannot love unless she hates.

She never speaks directly—she insinuates

Love, because hate is coming up from behind

As love and hate go back and forth in her mind,

An alternating current of electric power,

Loving me for a minute, hating me for an hour,

Missing me terribly for an entire day

After announcing, to me, who did no wrong, “please go away.”

I don’t blame her for this,

Being a fool for a beautiful woman and her kiss,

But I also know

The engine of opposites is how things go,

The world and the non-world are fighting it out.

In order to have faith, you must have doubt.

In order to love, there must be dreams

Of hate overcome, of overcoming everything that only seems,

Including reasons for hate and fear and doubt

Which burns visible and beautiful and will never go out.

That’s why I love her, even in her hate—

Ugly, beautiful, angry, sweet, unfortunate, lucky, here, late.





If beauty were equally divided,
Where would pleasure dwell?
To my beautiful love I once confided
Her beauty made me unwell—
Her strange sexual beauty wrapped me up in hell.
But if beauty between all creatures were equally divided
All that madness would vanish.
English would be just as beautiful as Indian or Spanish.
Every person would be beautiful alone
Without comparison; none more beautiful than the rest.
The jealousy of the ugly would cease to exist—
Love would cease to be divisive, and every ecstatic moan
Would be decided by surrender—only that would be the test.
Some would surrender often, and they would be known
As loving too often, and yet, by giving themselves away, they would be blessed.
The one I would love would save her love; a sweet torture to be melancholy and glad.
Diluted beauty! She would hardly kiss me at all. And our love would be sweetly sad.



Beauty is not only true—but kind.

I witnessed a modernist lose his mind

Deploring what the imaginative Keats had said,

Who left for Rome—when England’s hedges were all dead,

When frost lay on the garden bed—

At Hampstead—and other places.

I’ve seen the look on women’s faces—

Women who are past child-bearing age,

Proud, and still beautiful, and kind,

Because they kept beauty in their mind—

I have seen women look placidly and calm

On gardens bursting, as the highest balm—

And when they stood with lovely jewels on

Beside friends, their smiles as cold as the moon,

Coldly beautiful, since they knew in frozen beds

They would be lying down soon,

The flowers gray, no more the passionate purples and reds!

I wished I had loved them. Never

Could I—no, never—this much beauty had known

As with you! Remember our sweet moan?

When we loved in nature’s yellow-lighted chapel?

How much can I tell—

If I auspiciously regret what we all regret: beauty lost forever?

Is this a frozen bed?

Its flowers with flowers that once sighed, dead?

So we read modernist verses instead.

Because we would rather forget

The flower—and our enormous debt?





Image result for dead horse beach salem ma

We share the sea.

I stood on my shore and looked across the bay to Beverly.

The sea is a lot to share

But since you no longer care

We can do it easily.

I’ll take the waves, and the seaweed bobbing,

The various land items which the sea is robbing,

And the seagulls that fly from shore to shore;

These are mine, and since you no longer care,

I might take more:

Things richer, and more rare.

The kayaks in the shallows

Will belong to me, and things

Valuable, which do not float: bracelets and rings.

And since you no longer care,

Candy wrappers from the jazz fair,

And the jazz notes

Over the water. The sail boats.

And smaller items we might not see.

You no longer care. So these belong to me:

The glitter in the water from the sun,

The sighs from lovers. Shouts by the sea from anyone,

Who are my friends now, since you no longer care.

Girls in bathing suits with long hair.

Am I taking too much? You don’t argue. You don’t dare.

I’ll take the children splashing near the shore.

And the ocean near your house—since you don’t love me anymore.






Image result for ocean painting hudson river school

I wanted  the boundless sea

Because it was boundless and I always thought the boundless was me.

My breaths go on forever, I always need another one.

I’m unlimited, more unlimited than the sun,

Because every moment I need a new breath, and every day I feed,

And in my brain are infinite memories—and every day I need

To use my infinite mind

To be infinite. Reasonable. Patient. Kind.

A minute in a day has more infinity tucked inside

And inside that infinity I infinitely reside.

I wanted the boundless sea

Because I always thought the boundlessness was me.

I knew that limit was the thing we couldn’t see

And what we couldn’t know was one. Two. Three.

And good things were impossible: Love. Honesty.

Sometimes we reside somewhat comfortably in this or that belief

But joking, or annoyed, we submit to existence, that random thief.

And you can’t tell anyone what you really believe.

Your love and your art were wrong because you didn’t deceive.





How are we to know

If our lover has been true?

The sun comes up and says

See what you can do.

A shrieking bird in the darkness says sing—

Then listen to how he sings to you.

Why is the bird in darkness?

Because the sun is late.

How are we to know

When love turns to hate?

When the earth, this ball of fur

Rotates in space, and resembles her?

The actions of the orbs—can they be understood?

How is the moon good?

What does the moon do when I sleep?

Does she think of me? And weep?





The poet failed to compose the song,
Having loved her—almost to the point of wrong,
Because jealousy began to get in the way
Of anything the lover might say.
A song came through the poet’s open window one night
With a soft, creeping melody
Almost discernible, a snake made of light,
Softly undulating, insinuating itself beneath the bed
Where roses lived, to the ground’s delight.
Then a poem came into the poet’s head
As he dreamed. Nothing else happened that night.

The scent of flowers
Grew in the room during the night’s hours,
And in the morning filled the poet’s mind
With a beautiful scent, but no melody was there,
No melody in the poet’s head which reclined
Upon thick pillows—pillows oblivious to dreams.
There is no shape on the earth but it isn’t what it seems.
One window had light, but the rest
Were dark. Nothing else happened that day.

The wooded paths were long and the poet strode
Down them. He recalled the mare the two of them rode
When he and she were in love and the mare
Paused in a mist; a lake had been there
Where the poet now walked
Past where they had stopped and talked,
Past where they had put down a blanket and loved.
Put down a blanket and loved.
A scent of roses, there could be no doubt.
And the small birds wandered about.
The ruined boulevard.  Nothing else happened that day.

There is no poem but that a song can make it stay.
The poet would fail! Fail again! And fall out of love!
The day after the dream there was no song.
Nor a memory of a scent. Could a rose be wrong?


The Chinese know how to live: corrupt officials,

Seafood caught fresh from the sea,

Drunkenness celebrated in poetry.

It’s a plan that works well.

Heavenly poetry living where beggars dwell.

Poetry for drunks, the poor, the blind

So eventually all of these become refined.

Write your poetry to one who broke your heart

And hates you. Don’t throw her back in the sea.

Love her anyway. Drunk. Corrupt. And shit, don’t forget I’m here.

Don’t forget about me.





Shot out of the cannon of your love,

At first I was shocked, but then I noticed many things above.

The same inducements to pleasure give us pain.

(I’m never trying those things again)

The big picture really does makes sense

Up here, where the air is not so dense

And anger dies in circumstance.

I see you doing town-like things in town,

Wondering if you should buy that gown,

(Have I told you I’m never coming down?)

The string that solves the maze is shaped like the maze.

There is a willingness to fight

When one isn’t right.

And when there isn’t love in the middle of the night,

You get poems for days.



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