The Left Column

Politics for Poets

What is this blog that you be posting? The morning washed away like the dishes in the river?

Incomprehensibility. It entuckifies your bloat tempers, easing the false purples of mood and codifying them into nonsense. Understand is unnecessary at times like these. It's like the air at a water fall, electric and clean. There is no need for surity here, the ground is solid. The water is clean. No one worries about spiders here. Bees are our friends. A snake might be so big and friendly it makes itself a bridge. It picks you up and places you on the high ledge. It doesn't have to be a demon snake. This snake has wings. It looks like a bird. It acts like a bird. It wears it's wings. It flys around. It eats indifference and sloath. It disallows failure. It says "I'm am redeemed. I will now go down to the dredges and beg the Lord for my life, retch that I am, lowly and nothing without him. Wars locked in, Priests of the very many rites. They seek to not have you think that they agree with you. They want to keep you on your toes, test your metal. Anneal you. They want to see that you aren't just a common narcissicist. Not just.

Well, no one is. No one, a common narcicisst. Did I already mention the schtick about nothing needs to make sense? Make cents. Make quarters. Make a twenty dollar gold piece disappear into a collection plate. I've got fifty golden colored dollars and they tell me they aren't special at all. I'm disappointed. They will stop making them. Our credit has been lower rated. Nothing need make cents. Make dimes. Turn a quarter into twenty five dollars. Monitize the railings on the highway. Sell the interest in that metal to [some very-monied Internatinalists - or so we might imagine]. Then charge the excise tax on it all.

Oh, I could go on. but . . .

I think I've blogged enough today.

Life goes on.

~ OK Now.

July 24, 2011

The Susquahanna River, Pennsylvania from
last fall.

When Poems Lack
 Listen to a tone
    on the arid mountain.
     Leaves blow up
    and try to reach the sky.
         It seems there is always farther
   a little farther on the trail
       but really, without water
   you won't endure.

     Up that trail
     straight up there
  to the sky
     on the dessert mountain
       mountain laural
      and rattle snakes.

 Going to try to fly
   off into the sky
  I said I'm not that guy
   but caught in a lie.

  Going to try to fly
     off into the sky
  if you think I'm not that guy
    I'm not afraid to say goodbye.

     The poet rushes to the end of the high
            mountain platform
    and leaps from there.
   He is, of course, wearing hang gliding
                      gear.