Not Much Is Random Anymore (Except My Thoughts)

Everybody knows what everyone else knows and everything seems so profound / and we tell each other our stories over and over again / because we know our stories and we like our stories and we want to hear them every day / in a voice that’s other than ours but is ours just the same / and we want these stories to sound important and to carry a weight only the strongest words can bear so we recognize them and know that we are here / even though we all know the truth / I’ve told you the truth and you’ve told me the truth and all the while we’ve lied to each other / but the lies…they were so profound, weren’t they?



I wonder why the only poetry ever printed in a newspaper was “Krazy Kat.” People liked it, more than that, they loved it, but poetry was banned from the newspapers. Important people decided such things made their vision more difficult…it’s hard to read poetry and then slice a man’s throat for his geography.



For The Wind (A Tracing )


A grove of columns

A sprinkling of stones

The rest of the temple

Just a pantomime in the air


Still a place to burn an offering

You can mutter a prayer here

Light a candle with a yellow Bic

The same gods (or maybe new ones)

will smell your burning goat

Will hear your plaintive prayer

Will blow out your candle.


The wind is always leaving

But it’s always here

And your Bic is

No match.


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