Saturday, January 7, 2017

2 more poems

by chuck leary

heisenberg and st basil of cappadocia play gin rummy

apprehending the benediction of contraindication
despite the emptiness of flowers
growing happily in the interstices
of jellyfished kineticism

the loose matriculation of narcissism
overflows the percipient quagmire
in the ruins of a snow-covered tower

under the vertiginous wasteland
of the expanding yawning zeitgeist

but the zeitgeist has no amanuensis
as barracudas chomp the debris
of the empire of the forty graves


i hate poetry
but i love slender volumes of verse

i used to tell myself
i was not a voyeur

i didn’t understand porn
or want to look at naked bodies

at flabby boobs
and dicks and asses

or stand in the dark
in the wind and rain

looking through lighted windows
at unsuspecting humans

doing - what?

but naked souls

is a different matter

i admit it now
i am worse

than the sad peeper
seeking a glimpse of ass or boob

everything pales
beside seeing naked souls

i always thought stand up comedians
were the bravest people in the world

nobody could be
more naked

in front of a crowd
with no cover and no excuses

they either “killed”
or “died “

of course i never
had the guts to try it myself

but if you can’t do standup
or performance art

or read poetry out loud
what you can do

is write poetry
in slender volumes

forget zines and anthologies
where the naked ones

can huddle together
and hide behind each other

no, it must be
a lone slender volume

the distillation
of a single naked

and lonely

the fewer words
on a page the better

is more naked

than a book
of bad poetry

except, perhaps
a book of ordinary poetry


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