acrostic mirrors, a type of sonnet I created to be one of the most complex poetry forms in the English language — just can’t compete with the arab poets — If you look, you can see that the first stanza has the lines repeated in a difficult acrostic.    The first line is “No Matter how you look at things, congruities       the first column up to down says the same thing.  The second line is “matter but little.  It’s how things fit together”. And the second column reads the same way (second word in each line)

no                         matter             how            you            look             at                 things       congruities

matter                      but              little            it’s              how         things             fit               together

how                     little               equality     yes              even         that                can                displease

you                      it’s                  yes            how          things         stand              not                   whether

look                   how               even            things        are              at               even              parities

at                       things             that            stand           at             undefiled        be              be

things                 fit                can               not           even             be               odd                even

congruities together      displease     whether      parities                be                 even                  or





and the table of contents is a poem in itself






Acrostic Mirrors


by Norman Clark Stewart Jr.








































Table of Contents


Fraternal Twins With Nothing Psychic

To Judge the Odds of Both Living Past Forty,

…………………  4

The Radical Behaviorist and the Otherwise Inspired,

The Clinical and the Otherwise Inclined,

………………….  5

Coming to Blows Over Capitalized Words,

You Say I’m Too Silly.

……………………………………..  6

Just Juxtaposition of the Contrapositive

And the Unexplained, You

…………………………………..  7

Train Your Children to See

Into the Microscope With Both Eyes Open

Until Parallax is Focused on the Slide, No Longer

Dissonance …..  8

You See the Ocean as Salt, Electrolytes, Algae, and Fish


Fried Portions to Consume in Explanations,

……………………  9

Tear My Horse to Pieces of Anatomy, Seeing Him as

Potential Glue.

You Dare Declare,

…………………………………………  10

“If I am Poet, I am Lost”,

………………………………….  11

Set Words Against Me in a Clash of Ideologies.

So, I Want a Name, Don’t Want to be Named.

…………………..  12

Your Wife Knew You: Couldn’t Take Your Specialty Anymore–

Is That a Fair Cut?  Divorce is Such an Easy Retort.

………….  13

Ant and Aunt Rhetoric, You Divorce Me From My Words With

“It’s Been Said Before and Better”,

…………………………  14

Making Me Tramp About, To Find a Marriage of Word to Word.

I Look for Hitch‑Hikers,

…………………………………..  15

Pass Antioch, Dirt‑Black, Crouched Behind the Wheel

Of My Tractor to Remind Them, “I’ve Been Feeding You”.

………..  16

The Big Gangs Bounced My Head Against the Sidewalk

Pulling Me Out of My Seat.  We Both Went Into Hiding.

…………  17

I Feel Love Slipping Into the Closet With the Platform


Ignorance With an Excuse.

………………………………….  18

I Really Thought They’d All Love My Rebellious Utterings,

Trusted “The People” to Find the Real “Me”.

………………….  19

We Both Regret Decisions We Can’t Retrieve, Branches We

Threw Out,

Never Expecting the Dogs Would Keep Running.

…………………  20

Was That the Torment, That Even Dogs Die?

………………….  21

No Rite of Passage Marked the Votes We Made.

………………..  22

We Submit to Dialectic Subservience.

……………………….  23

Intimations of the Holocaust Thump the Crust of Our French


Leave Fingerprints on Our German Pastries.

……………………  24

Your Wife Just Deserted an Idea of You,

Sees Only Sperm in the Microscope.

………………………….  25

Tilling the Cold Land, Part‑Time Farmers, Like You,

Stay Only to See the Ground Broken.

…………………………  26

At Night, By Firelight, I Admit My Age,

…………………….  27

Look to Life For a Reason To Continue the Fight

For the Individual Illusion.

……………………………….  28

Celebrating Constancy, You Realize a Different Strength

In the Spirit of Your Ex‑Wife.

……………………………..  29

Lost in Your Science,

She Says She Won’t Speak With You.

………………………….  30

Lonely Since She Left (With the Sunblock 45);

Lonely Since You Left.

…………………………………….  31




Anger and Covered‑Over Holes,

Patches of Smoothed‑Out Disappearances,

……………………..  32

Nothing Makes Sense Without Distraction.

……………………  33

Will My Love Give Up and Go?

…………………………….  34

I Still Scream, Though Subdued,

“What Do You Want From Me?!”

………………………………  35

You Resign to a Future That Twists Your Children’s Faces

And You Call Me the Dreamer,

……………………………….  36

Make Me Outcast For Saying That Inventions Need to Be


………….  37

Children Would Have Been Nice.  I Watch Yours Growing Up:

…………………………………. 38

Thought I Could Make Information a Weapon

For Them to Change You With.

……………………………….  39

Now, Breathing in Numbers Which Substitute for Free Air,

……..  40

Afraid That Nothing is Free, Not Even Expression,

……………  41

I Go Back to Farming and Bug Control,

Microbiotic Manipulation,

………………………………….  42

Realize Plato Was No Farmer.

……………………………….  43

You Both Condemn Me for My Infertility.

……………………..  44

Any Love I Had Is Now Only Devotion.

……………………….  45

Marcuse and You Deny Me Meaning

And the Existence of Any Public.

……………………………  46

I Censor Myself:

…………………………………………  47

Used to Have Sex for Exercise.

…………………………….  48

My Body Has Become a Free‑Form Blob

But There Is Still Some Strength Here

………………….. 49





Fraternal Twins With Nothing Psychic

To Judge the Odds of Both Living Past Forty



No matter how you look at things, congruities

Matter but little. It’s how things fit together,

How little Equality (yes, even that) can displease

You.  It’s, yes, how things stand, not whether.

Look…. How even things are at even parities,

At things that stand, at undefiled Be.  Be

Things fit.  Can not even be odd even?

Congruities together displease whether parities be even or…


The large cosmos and man‑made lore

Engage in altercation for what we believe in.

We build systems of order that tell us what we see

But, Truth, that fierce trickster, defies clarity.

Things seem to fit when the odds are not even

But beyond our belief there is always something more.



























The Radical Behaviorist and the Otherwise Inspired

The Clinical and the Otherwise Inclined



Form and content are not separate, but unified

And controlled.  To some intellects, form leaves the

Content to psychology.  Kind thinkers give in: discrepancies

Are some kind of magical messages.  The forms,

Not intellects, thinkers magical, not innocent trees (making

Separate form) give messages.  Innocent lives are art

But leaves in the trees are not, truly.

Unified, the discrepancies (forms making art) truly expand


And language is not the only source

Of artistic amazement.  The mere fact

That there was enough there to listen to,

The sounds of disguised equity as it plodded

Its way along, these and maybe something more,

Are hidden beneath the silly surface.



























Coming to Blows Over Capitalized Words

You Say I’m Too Silly



Still suffering from a formal tendency of mind,

Suffering, sometimes, a placement against extrapolations (free emotion

From a freer mindset) creations question, making placement

A placement/mindset problem (that poems have nothing

Formal against creations that have nothing worthwhile).  All

Tendency‑extrapolations, question‑poems, nothing‑considerations form poems

Of free making, have worthwhile form.  All are

Mind/emotion/placement/nothing.  (All poems are nothing‑‑


Nothing but poems.)  They are not imagery,

Not questions, not extrapolation,

Not placement nor tendencies,

Considerations of free making,

Not suffering, nor mindset, not problems,

Not even worthwhile, but they are sometimes Poetry.



























Just Juxtaposition of the Contrapositive

And the Unexplained, You



Laugh at me, sweet dream child.  They laugh

At you too.  You fall for made beauty

(Me too) and, failing at fame’s fortunes, become

Sweet you, failing graciously, sunset taking you, (the

Dream fall at sunset is something, somehow) beast/

Child for fame’s taking, something easily ignored because

They made fortunes you, somehow, ignored, called nothing.

Laugh, beauty, become the beast because nothing matters


When love is lost.  When love is lost

There is no fame, no fortune worth having

And the beauty of form is only refuge

From having to remember the dreams you discarded,

In the sunset of youth, when love

Was pain to deepen the pleasure you knew.























Train Your Children to See Into the Microscope With

 Both Eyes Open

Until Parallax is Focused on the Slide, No Longer




And no men left to see the dawn,

No tricksters living out some devious plans and

(Men living imitations of hateful orgasms) daring dusk.

Left out of influence, dreamers left the present

To some hateful dreamers, reigned over consequences to

See devious orgasms left over, to make fashion

The plans, daring the consequences, make ugly the

Dawn and dusk, present to fashion the guilt


And become fashion themselves out of dreaming

So that dreaming is, for them, justified

But if no one sees the dusk and dawn,

If orgasms produce deformity, if my plans

Can be crushed, like my body can be, then

My dreams are worth something more when held.

















You See the Ocean as Salt, Electrolytes, Algae, and

Fish History

Fried Portions to Consume in Explanations



I look at the ocean’s chores during summer,

Look at my duty and wonder, just how,

At my leisure, to form oceans that “better”

The duty, to masterfully create from need, (the

Ocean’s) and form.  Create greater need?  I, doing

Chores, wonder, ‑‑”Oceans from need?”‑‑, what need is,

During just that need.  I need more than

Summer.  How better the doing is than boredom,


So I do chores and write down lists

Of more to do, try to improvise

Like the ocean, try to fill the needs

It presents me with, try to be big

And impressive and, yet, soothing, hypnotic,

Try to find meaning in its movement and majesty.




























Tear My Horse to Pieces of Anatomy, Seeing Him as

Potential Glue

You Dare Declare



“Plague, like the old‑fashioned kind, or some

Like death bug, bags mainly weaklings”.  They say,

“The bug is bad for faltering whinnies and

Old bags, bad for bloodlines”, intimations that mean,

`Fashioned mainly for bloodlines, blowing’ (evil wind), “too‑

Kind weaklings”, faltering intimations (evil plagues), “down already”,

Or, “They, whinnies that wind down, become infected.”

Some say, and mean too, “already infected.” Others


Say only pleasure they hope to give,

Say only silly formulations of mental acrobatics,

Say only intimations and are contagious

In their simplicity and art is obtuse

For them, because death is so close

And they fall down without screaming.



















If I am Poet, I am Lost



If you place me where you wish to,

You give me something less of a chance,

Place me next to me, course set, with

“Me” something to be.  Is that any good;

Where less “me” is more like anyone’s fortune?

You, of course, that like the concept, you

Wish a set, any‑anyone’s concept and leave

To chance ‑‑ with good fortune, you leave it


Completely to chance and formal law ‑‑

Whether I am what I’m supposed to be,

Whether I’m close enough to everyone and not too

Far from me.  Once placed, my life can be judged as

Being on or off course, as compared to every anyone

On that route, in that place.  So, I get lost.




























Set Words Against Me in a Clash of


So, I Want a Name, Don’t Want to be Named



Game’s played this way and only this way,

Played for profit, for fun.  If not done

This profit‑sharing, insurance‑included, people‑diminishing, greedy

Way, for insurance percentages, for power returns realized

And fun (included for productivity), profit shrinks.  “So,

Only if people power profit, give us that.”

This, not diminishing returns, shrinks us, impoverishes.  The

Way, done greedy, realized so that the whole


Human race can be lifted by raising the standard

On the top, is the only way we know to make

The folks on the bottom struggle upward.

“And the greedy topsters like to tell us what we need to do

If we have a conscience, if we want to do the right

Thing and be like them, rabid redistributors of grief.”


























Your Wife Knew You, Couldn’t Take Your Specialty


Is That a Fair Cut?  Divorce is Such an Easy




Marriage is like a poem like this one,

Is sometimes stodgy little ritual moments, even (often)

Like stodgy separation.  Love, well‑spent, wisely gives

A little love back.  Of all that this

Poem, ritual well of watery poison, can realize,

Like moments spent, all poison and mean, remember

This, even wisely (that can mean well) : Love

(One often gives this) realize!  Remember love when


The passion takes you, when the funny words flow through

Laughter, realize that the stodgy moments of ritual

Were born of love, as well, and the pretty lines

And times, the sickness and health, poverty and wealth,

The subservience and mastery, the top and bottom

Of it, the dishes and doorknobs, also, are close to truth.

























Ant and Aunt Rhetoric, You Divorce Me From My

Words With

“It’s Been Said Before and Better”



Same old story when they’re black and white;

Old sunlit lines, just sitting dead; those fine

Story lines and existence here entangled like lace

When just existence survives, making webs these concepts;

They’re sitting here making webs, crazy moonlight crammed

Black dead entangled webs, crazy moonlight visions, mourning,

And those like these moonlight visions, dark within

White fine lace concepts, crammed mourning within knowledge,


Within me and I try to tell it all

So that it’s beautiful and funny,

Try to look at life and imitated art,

Try to put something new on the page, imbedded

In something timeless and, black and white,

All I have is formic tricks and words.























Making Me Tramp About, To Find a Marriage of Word

to Word

I Look for Hitch‑Hikers



The drive toward a higher love, expressed as

Drive not wasted, fine tones spoken, lyrics, waved

Toward wasted minds (addiction to habit), being like

A fine addiction in themselves, until artists, humming

Higher tones to themselves, music, almost in symphonies,

Love spoken, (habit until almost perfected) love, then

Expressed (lyrics being artists in love with truth)

As waved like humming symphonies, then truth, then


Beauty, along with that love, as all made real, all one, come to grips

With the enormity of their task,

Is a drive


A desolate

























Pass Antioch, Dirt‑Black, Crouched Behind the


Of My Tractor to Remind Them, “I’ve Been Feeding




When the truth in structure is definitively denied,

The rhythmic complexity measures out every broken beat.

Truth, complexity, and that old organic concrete (diluted

In measures that signify complacency) picture perfection, pattern

Structure.  Out old complacency comes.  Poetry staggers and

Is every organic‑picture‑poetry‑piece concocted of

Definitively broken concrete.  Perfection staggers.  Concocted truth, (course

Denied, beat diluted)  pattern and, of course, imagery


Are tied by wisp and whimsy, to pollinate the visceral

With branches, shaken just enough to excite a bee

With the prospect of honey, but swatted before the planting

Of that stamen expressionism.  Buds scream for Morning Glory.

That flora grows too fast and strong.  The picture wants nothing

That will need cutting nor guilt for the loss of a petal’s perfect proportions.























The Big Gangs Bounced My Head Against the


Pulling Me Out of My Seat.  We Both Went Into




Too close to tyranny, we try for freedom,

Close doors, erect bars, keep weaponry close, ready

To erect a new democracy, after combat against

Tyranny bars new ideals as futility, after all.

We keep democracy, as hope fades fast.  We

Try weaponry after futility fades, create enemies, despise,

(For close combat) after fast enemies fall, keep

Freedom ready against all we despise, keep faith


In a relative freedom of lain bricks and sometimes

Spontaneous offerings of good times and wonderful

Words that flow easily from the lips in rhythmic

Relation to our lives of freedom, inside the bars

That safety requires, with weapons and words and a

Faith in our ability to be free and keep our faltering faith alive.























I Feel Love Slipping Into the Closet With the

Platform Shoes

Ignorance With an Excuse



It is always about love when a world

Is made from imagination and words.  Mighty emotion,

Always from sense of self, can talk, not

About imagination of pictured hyperbole only but of

Love and self, hyperbole tamed, force constricted; for

When words can only force truthful style or

A mighty talk (but constricted style, still) with

World emotion, not of, for, or with love


But only hyperbolic pictures of self‑indulgent moments of

Masterpiece idolatry without heart and soul,

Then the created thing, like an adopted child, looking

For a parental reason, past sperm and egg, is telling

A little bit more like a lie about where it came from,

When the love in imagination, hyperbole, force, constricted style is denied.






















I Really Thought They’d All Love My Rebellious


Trusted “The People” to Find the Real “Me”



Twisted with age, angered and unused, I wait,

With rage spiraling, for recognition.  Talent, want, desire,

Age spiraling upward, all temper and shape me,

Angered for all humanity exploited.  Time is taken

And recognition (temper exploited) is some sedation for

Unused talent and time, some small enough reward.

I want shape!  Is sedation enough?  I can’t

Wait:  Desire me!  Taken for reward, can’t I


Be like the prize at the bingo game? ‑‑Talent for before,

Time for benign, selfless acts in diagonal lines,

For fun and something to do when there are

Too many cards out, being played and thrown

Aside when someone else jumps up for the prize,

For something they want and always wanted ‑‑ me.





















We Both Regret Decisions We Can’t Retrieve, Branches

We Threw Out

Never Expecting the Dogs Would Keep Running



Trapped in a crystal prism of facets cut,

In fluid suspension, we know refracted, twinkling reality,

A suspension of dreaming, other ways to pretend

Crystal.  We, dreaming within structure, are not pure

Prism, know other structure, fantasize, (living sanction lives

Of refracted ways, are living still, solidity, with

Facets twinkling to not sanction solidity) forego chaos‑

‑Cut reality, pretend pure lives with chaos removed


But look out at the stars and butterflies

To know what life could be, if only

We were not so responsible and committed.

We allow chaos as a conceptual enigma

That we are getting into shape and order, for the feeling

Of progress and movement, for when even twinkles freeze.



























Was That the Torment, That Even Dogs Die?



What was so pressing about the growth process?

Was it wanting every growing dream in us,

So wanting, so young, to appear as close

(Pressing every young cause forward, as many legends

About growing to forward mankind’s destiny ‑‑ full of

The dream ‑‑ appear as destiny) as adult life.

Growth in as many full adult plans means

Process us, close legends of life, means, riches


Off, close us off from greatness, for social security,

Find ways to keep back a tide of crabby kids

Who proliferated from adults, like sand in the cracks

Of juicy lust.  What can we do?  This growth

Can be stopped by immoral means, but how human

Will we all be, when it’s over, how processed and packaged?

























No Rite of Passage Marked the Votes We Made



Freedom’s frightening, about the time propaganda takes over,

Frightening when it only tells the good things

About it, the big it, unknown information, hidden,

The only big secret, all we have not.

Time tells it all.  We search ‑‑started with

Propaganda, the unknown ‑‑ We search desperately, but it

Takes good information, have started but aren’t getting

Over things hidden, not with it getting so



Lied about,

And lost, like us,

In a muddled maze

Of half‑lies and half‑truths

About it, them, they, we, us.
























We Submit to Dialectic Subservience



Maybe we’re not long worth making slaves of.

“We’re not as efficient as machines –just consumers,”

(Not as long as creativity is needed). We’re

Long efficient as buyers but how can our

Worth, as creativity but not control, survive? Image‑

‑Making (machines) is how control is kept. Consumer

Slaves, just needed, can survive, kept barely cognizant

Of consumers;  We’re our image.  Consumer‑cognizant carriers


Of fair play and the fine ways of compassion and justice

Are subjugated to the big ways of business buys

And corporate profit curves and the DNA

That we are is sold.  The fetus is bought.

The money we are worth is determined in ways

We would never allow, so, now, we wait for judgment.




























Intimations of the Holocaust Thump the Crust of Our

French Bread

Leave Fingerprints on Our German Pastries



Don’t talk to me about wrong, wrongly righted.

Talk about freedom, equality, new ways to get

To freedom, with equally fair remedies that give

Me equality, equally, without statistics that lie.  Talk

About new, fair statistics that don’t denote only

Wrong ways, remedies that don’t work. Relationships, twisted

Wrongly to that lie, denote relationships left, not

Righted.  Get, give, talk only twisted, not actual,


Truths and get, give, get votes, give favors

To the most you can and call them minorities,

Who, combined, make eight‑five per cent or more

Of us, who want justice so much that we

Have to be lied to, so we won’t feel guilty

When we get and give to our own little group.























youtube acrostic 22


Your Wife Just Deserted an Idea of You

Sees Only Sperm in the Microscope



Relative hardship makes so much talk sound like

Hardship from whining, apprehension for tears yet unwept,

Makes whining brats of us all, fury philanderers.

So, apprehension of adversity to confession is too

Much for us to claim (from elsewhere) and

Talk tears all confession from us.  Beautiful music,

Sound (yet, fury is elsewhere), beautiful sufferers, everyone,

Like unwept philanderers, too, and music everyone hears


Are like monotony, imagery of the average.

Psychographic and demographic and image‑oriented graphics

Are the music of mankind and personhood.

Pheromones are sold to give the illusion of strength,

To get everyone on the same schedule,

From bull semen to cloned frogs.  We are all hungry.



























Tilling the Cold Land, Part‑Time Farmers Like


Stay Only to See the Ground Broken



Winter wasted in worries and wind, we make

Wasted our time, in talk, to save us

In time, before random togetherness, weather, time, mundane

Worries, in random order, separate us.  We live

And talk togetherness, separate but equal, have blistering

Wind to weather us.  Equal time for pay,

We save time we have for those that

Make us mundane, live blistering, pay that bill


When the cost is the little lives we have

And time




By Second.




























At Night, By Firelight, I Admit My Age



New worries about health make the man.  He

Worries, but not about revolutions lost, is concerned

About not getting too far from civilized, modern

Health, about too many roads, running quickly, that

Make revolutions, far roads, no longer taken, is

The lost, from running longer than life. That

Man is civilized quickly.  Taken life takes revenge.

He, concerned, modern, “That is that”, revenge‑accepting


Fool that he is, and seems to have always been,

Tries not to forget the reasons he ran those rambling roads,

Tries to fight the resignation but

We all

Settle down































Look to Life For a Reason To Continue the


For the Individual Illusion



Resurrection from alcoholic sleep ‑‑ like licking candy stolen

From a baby, I embrace life.  I’m an

Alcoholic baby, fighting thought about dry bones, ultimate

Sleep.  I thought, when twenty, “There’s no disgrace

‑‑Like embrace about twenty times a day ‑‑ love

Licking life dry.” ( there’s a reference to rotten

Candy)  I’m bones; no day to spare ‑‑life

Stolen ‑‑ an ultimate disgrace  ‑‑ love rotten, life squandered


And she’s already gone, all black hair and green eyes

Of her, (when she knew I’d never become

Someone to grow old with)  and what I hope

Is that I can survive long enough to say,

“It wasn’t all wasted.  The grief isn’t gone

But today’s a baby being born.”




























Celebrating Constancy, You Realize a Different


In the Spirit of Your Ex‑Wife



She collects coffee and tea cups (like Grandma),

Collects memories ground by her hands, chipped, impregnated,

Coffee‑ground‑stained memory trinkets on shelves’ suspension

And, by memory, keeps the home warmth, steeps

Tea, her trinkets, the glow, those precious stains,

Cups hands on “home”, those cups, with wrinkles

Like chipped shelves’ warmth, precious with cracks, dents.

Grandma‑impregnated suspension steeps, stains, wrinkles, dents her


Life, which sits on the land like the cups

On those shelves and I am the stumbler who falls

Into them, breaking her,
























Lost in Your Science

She Says She Won’t Speak With You



Leftover solutions from an ice age ago, they’re

Solutions that would aggregate forms and structures, cast

From “would be, if”, flowing past, ignorant, into

An aggregate, if/then, crystalized confection of molded

Ice forms, flowing crystalized, sometimes sweetening our perception.

Age and past confection sweetening youthful loss, forever‑

Ago structures, ignorant of our loss, tell nothing,

(They’re cast into molded perception) forever nothing, until


We find our own meaning in the glacier

Of slow‑moving truth.  Yes, ice melting

Is the best water history.  New reality

Is conceived for every new discovery and the big,

Frosted cake of self‑realization

Is the birthday of “will be, when”.






























Lonely Since She Left (With the Sunblock 45)

Lonely Since You Left



Warmth creeping over cold concrete and brown bushes,

Creeping back to life, green coming back ‑‑ Winter’s

Over, to pass into memories of wet, snowy,

Cold life, into new‑made vigor, perspiration, resolve,

Concrete, green memories, made leafy life.  The leaving

And coming of vigor, life renewed, sun‑tanning,

Brown back, wet perspiration, the sun drench thirsty

Bushes (Winter’s snowy resolve, leaving), tanning thirsty skin


With all the young hopes of Spring

Meadows and wild flowers.  I am

Not ready to leave this cocoon of grief.

Your father’s death was like the loss

Of a friend to me, combined with

The loss of my lover to his memory.

























Anger and Covered‑Over Holes

Patches of Smoothed‑Out Disappearances



I love light, the bouncing I see.  I

Love the refracted beauty, the rainbow colors, see

Light refracted and split, banana‑formed yellow entering

The beauty‑split orange crystal, made in glass,

Bouncing the banana‑crystal, curving (of windows).  Am

I rainbow‑formed, made of solar brilliance?  I

See colors, yellow in windows ‑‑brilliance, the sparkle

I see, entering glass,  Am I sparkle and


Fire, in a watery world, a dirt and airborne

Dust, floating world,

Crashing into the plate glass window

And a lover with a shotgun,

Pointing, to plaster me

Into the white wall?

























Nothing Makes Sense Without Distraction



Wall came down.  Television memories of relatives dying

Came flooding in, telling something.  Uneasy, I felt

Down, in this glorious, momentous time.  Watching the

Television telling glorious tales of fast freedom, dark

Memories (something momentous) of bodies falling; barbed wire

Of uneasy time, fast falling, invaded, (cemeteries) ripping

Relatives, I, watching freedom‑barbed‑cemeteries, remember their

Dying, felt the dark wire ripping their faces


When the television showed their spurting blood

Or their fallen bodies.

They ran for freedom and died

And now the wall falls down,

So easily,

And I’m supposed to be happy?
























Will My Love Give Up and Go?



I couldn’t understand that wall, giving so quickly,

Couldn’t fathom why friends died, forfeiting escape, couldn’t

Understand why Gorby gave up lands, wasn’t celebrating

That friends gave all ‑‑ freedom for death.  The

Wall died.  Up freedom!  But what? ‑‑He’s watching,

Giving, forfeiting lands, for what?  Freedom for free?

So, escape wasn’t death?  He’s for mankind, enlightened

Quickly?  Couldn’t celebrating the watching, free, enlightened, be


A sort of desecration?  Are we not going to say

“Never forget that one that died, crossing no‑man’s land,


The promise































I Still Scream, Though Subdued

“What Do You Want From Me?!”



Public opinion justifies the lies, the winning of

Opinion polls.  The dogs of knowledge tell lies,

(Justifies the killing, greed, gluttony) often about all

The dogs, greed‑inspired, power‑poor, who hear

Lies of gluttony, power, ambition, are not in

The knowledge (often poor), are consigned to almost

Winning, tell about who not to be, full

Of lies.  All hear, in almost full‑blown


Light of day, that high‑pitched



Their own


And desires.























You Resign to a Future That Twists Your

Children’s Faces

And Call Me the Dreamer



Forget about fun, just plain forget about fun,

About all things that wrap death with ribbon.

Fun things degenerate.  Strive to find success and

Just that.  Strive forward, hide joy in boxes.

(Plain wrap to hide colorfulness) Through work, you’ll

Forget death.  Find joy through effort.  You’re jostled

About.  With success in work, you’re master of

Fun, ribbon and boxes.  You’ll (jostled, of course)


Be in charge when you take charge

And your children will laud your name

For giving them their leisure,

Fun, ribboned packages,

And the chance to take advantage of you,

Without guilt.

























Make Me Outcast For Saying That Inventions Need to

Be Imitated



The Theme is that sometimes beauty’s tight, formed‑‑

‑‑Theme enough, isn’t it?  People attempt critical paradox

(Is isn’t, cold is hot) to claim non‑existence,

That it is somehow about solopsistically unstructured poetry.

Sometimes, people, hot about reality, say “Looseness is

Beauty’s attempt to solopsistically say `Everything exists'”.  Their

Tight, critical claim, “Unstructured looseness exists”, their loose‑

Formed, paradox, non‑existence poetry is their loose, but


Not formless, expression.  It exists.  It is.

It defines its own and their reality.  Once penned,

It is not non‑existence, not formless, not

Unmetered, but shaped by their own

Personal rhythms, real when it

Speaks easily but not the only beauty that is.


























Children Would Have Been Nice

I Watch Yours Growing Up



Leftover pain, scab picked too long, scars crimson,

Pain I avoided, the long‑covered, bandaged truth‑

Scab; avoided by twisting lies, weaving life, I

Picked the twisting pain, lay, half an animate.

Too long, lies lay, half‑hidden.  Expose the

Long‑covered (weaving, half‑hidden) rug of flesh

Scars, bandaged life, (an exposJ of secrets hidden)

Crimson truth.  I animate the flesh, hidden beneath


Bandaged basket webs of healing, pushing itself

Out to air. No lie lasts,

Not if Heaven exists,

But how can I call myself humble or meek

When I pick at the truth,

Ignoring the blood?
























Thought I Could Make Information a Weapon

For Them to Change You With



My rights and all that freedom lost ‑‑your

Rights and mine do not conflict if yours

And mine further society’s proposition.  The courts, united,

All do society’s bidding.  Polls, skewed, question propaganda.

That, not proposition polls, but multiple‑choice‑style

Freedom‑conflict, the skewed, multiple‑true‑false justice,

Lost if courts question choice (false society) makes

Your yours united.  Propaganda‑style‑justice makes justice


Just ice in this blistering desert, devoid

Of the pure water of unpolluted truth, disguised

As the only truth possible in a dual two‑party

Reality, but what is society’s proposition,

Hidden, by “national security”, from the secured?

I’ll tell you mine.  It is “Liberty for all.”





















Now, Breathing in Numbers, Which Substitute for

Free Air



Lack of access to leadership positions is not

Of only female cause or held by that

Access.  Female‑lacking‑power mentality diminished rights (empowerment)

To cause power to be denigrated, spilled. Could

Leadership or mentality be controlled, (to spread wealth,

Positions held) diminished, denigrated to soothe?  Synthesized chaos

Is (by rights spilled, spread, synthesized, lost)  made,

Not that empowerment, ( Could wealth, chaos, made systems


Be made world‑wide exploitation?) but useful, to imitate

Butter, to imitate that empowerment until, even, bread

Is something fake, bulk and roughage only, with

Power a margarine, spread over it, outside

Of a store‑house of croissants,

For those who were not concerned about leadership.




























Afraid That Nothing is Free, Not Even




Rain, trees, Spring coming; red shoots on roses,

Trees budding green, Fig forces out newly grown,

Spring‑green branches, crops coming, will empowered, anticipating

Coming Fig crops, work to be independent, sunset‑

Red forces, coming to life of seeds, pushing

Shoots out, will be of absolutely no impact

On newly‑empowered, independent seeds, no longer “potential”.

Roses, grown, anticipating sunset, pushing “impact potential” of


Darkness, to be sold as “Night in a Bottle”,

And farm life become, again, the same struggle

Just to keep it all alive

On the edge of a city

That breathes and sprinkles death

And calls for roses to profess its love.




















I Go Back To Farming and Bug Control

Microbiotic Manipulation



Spring puppies awakening and warm weather coming soon,

Puppies of Winter’s discontent, happy, wearing fat fur,

Awakening Winter’s ire in their eagerness for grass

And, (discontent in cramped housing becomes life, leisure,

Warm) happy, their housing, now the outside, becomes

Weather‑wearing eagerness, becomes the telling of  Spring’s

Coming (fat for life, outside of themselves, luxurious).

Soon, fur‑grass‑leisure becomes Spring’s luxurious burdonsomeness,


Mowing and trimming bushes, planting crops,

Swatting heart‑worm mosquitoes,

Picking the sheddings from mange‑ridden bodies,

Some playful moments in the cool rain

And, sometimes, a harvest of joy,

Amongst the rows of browning memories.



























Realize Plato Was No Farmer



Part of the beauty of life is reason.

Of roses torn in the ground, razed sunsets,

The torn picture, the rainbow, we, poetically singing

Beauty in the storm, create chopped, tuned reflections

Of the rainbow, create for our lost innocence.

Life‑ground, we chopped our vocal chords.  Reason

Is razed.  Poetically tuned, lost chords echo of

Reason, sunsets singing reflections.  Innocence, reason, of course,


And beauty seep into Summer heat

But the hurricane blows against us.

You scream at the storm with me.

The dogs howl along with the wind.

Plants and homes are uprooted in this type of chaos

And the logic of the corn‑row garden lilts in grey‑green light.



























You Both Condemn Me For My Infertility



It’s too late to make an art museum?

Too late!??  I ignore that assynine thinking.  Too

Late?  I own art, right now.  That hierarchy,

To ignore art unknown, choice‑foregone, money‑reigning,

Make‑that‑right‑(choice)‑investment exercise makes creation

An assynine, now foregone, exercise, degrades it;  buying

Art, thinking that money makes it and a

Museum too, hierarchy reigning, creation buying a good


Meal with a well‑placed splotch and line,

Hiding the creator’s real work in basement store‑rooms,

Saying, “`Art is dead’

Is what our art says.

Buy my baby’s spittle on litmus sheets,

Call the drool‑tracks my art.”


























Any Love I Had Is Now Only Devotion



If that was love, then what is this?

That was consuming, passion, hormonal, esoteric, spent fast,

Was consuming me like fire blazing in tinder.

Love, passion like insanity, faded slowly, (grief known)

Then, hormonal fire faded faster, deceiving memory now.

What esoteric, blazing slowly, deceiving as this is,

Is spent in grief memory?  This lost loving,

This fast tinder, known now, is loving you


But is the memory that loves you

Enough to hold on to?

I hold on for dear life here,

Hoping that you are happy,

Ready to play white knight

If you call.

























Marcuse and You Deny Me Meaning

And the Existence of Any Public



If I must speak pictures to make metaphor,

I will talk color temperature, about how we

Must talk of shadings, of relative hue, tones,

Speak color, shadings of the white truth outside

Pictures, temperature ‑‑ of the snow that life melted

To, about relative white that creams walls, to

Make how‑hue‑truth‑life‑walls of why‑

Metaphor. We, tones, outside, melted to why, are


Outside of the metaphor that we create

To encapsulate us,

Uncluttered by skin color or skin tone,

In the muddy, grey world of fewer elephants

And mixed metaphors about monster

Organizations that tame us with pictures.
























I Censor Myself



Is there freedom anywhere but in the mind?

There were dreams laws shattered (trying for control),

Freedom dreams “they” destroy by writ and I’m

Anywhere laws destroy liberty (societal rights to shackle)

But, shattered by societal “good”, men are lost

In trying.  Writ‑rights, men‑foregone, laws become

The for and to, are laws that initiate

Mind control.  I’m shackle‑lost, become initiate for


This security, a pledge to that fraternity,

Written about as a statistical average and not trusted

Because liberty has no norm and societal “good”

Is an easier sell than the individual

Civilian’s, all too average, case of better that average

Treatment and above average, but impure, civil rights.






























Used To Have Sex For Exercise



Laughter, finally, explodes in the house and what,

Finally, was separation, aging, grief, becomes wonderful joy,

Explodes separation to bits, for a time, jiggles

In aging bits of my body like Jello.

The grief for my loss trapping me, the

House becomes a body trapping all emotional force

And wonderful time, like me, (emotional) bellows against

What joy jiggles (Jello).  The force against living


A life, happy, the knowledge of grief,

The time that was wasted,

The love spent and the sperm spilled

Eject themselves in a healing paroxysm,

Splashing against the walls

Like a projectile, pea‑green, reverse hyper‑peristalsis.

























My Body Has Become a Free‑Form Blob

But There is Still Some Strength Here



Free form is increased complexity, never simple expression,

Form so intricate that it is often ignored,

Is intricate enough to actually, honestly approach uniqueness,

Increased (that, to me, seems obvious) by hidden

Complexity.  It actually seems simple, having rules, but

Never is honestly obvious.  Having to (not always

Simple ‑‑ often) approach, by rules not written, an

Expression ignored, uniqueness hidden, but always an easy


Flow of whatever poetry flows with,

The poem

Must stand

Like the human soul,


And yet, connected.