Nationality’s where

every one’s

the same difference

thinking about feeling

the swans are young again

I stop to watch them fumble

with themselves I myself

was never a baby there are no photos

only stories I don't believe

of how they had to wake me to eat

have kids to fill in the blanks

make them remember how it was

to imagine when they're lost

there’s an old lady down the hall

with a bowl of candy

reduce life to that which
takes care of itself
communicate through echoes

what to do with absolute

realism

but decorate cemeteries

to do the most damage

we must have

a real faith in hell

consciousness is all I have

pain is exaggeration

pain is all I have

exaggeration is consciousness

exaggeration is all I have

consciousness is pain

all I have is

consciousness pain and exaggeration

beginnings in my life have no titles

my day has no subject no theme

and being the impersonation of 4 billion years of matter

I am not a man but men

either what I was or will become

Paradise

Paradise was written over many years in New York, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, and Alicante. The poem from which the book takes its title was inspired by an elementary school textbook. A possible subject for a poem, according to the author, is "a map of paradise."

Dementia

I told you if I had

to leave town

I would go to Chicago

there was vast

resistance

boarding the plane

everyone lives somewhere

does that make it right

Selfish Monologues

After Paradise, I began automatically recording my impressions of ideas from scientists, philosophers, poets, musicians, painters, sculptors and friends and was left with many notebooks full of scribbled chunks of text that I chiseled down to form curious juxtapositions. The result is Selfish Monologues, egopoetic rants from oblivion.

***

from Selfish Monologues

His handwriting shows no respect

she sleeps these twenty years or so

colliding

with the screams of reality fit

only for shelter and food

you have a long way to go

years between conversations in your true voice

believed cursed since you learned to talk

this is when gods and men revive the air

purged

in the theatre of sacrifice

when war is trivial and peace responds

in every selfish monologue

the streets raise an order that the sun

shine shadows on the wall

every child a drip in the slow destruction