Rogue Poetry

[Commentary] —I'm not so young anymore, I seem to think I've recognized something that has escaped most of the modern age that perhaps most of us are people lost inside our own heads.

When I look at my past, it now seems to be akin to roads unprepared, rivers still with old levees, and fields full of weeds, and unplowed. I suppose you can say that of any new generation coming onto the scene—one feels they have not enough time to finish what they started before the new one takes over. It is indeed a pilgrimage to write about it, in plain terms.

Few people recognize the poets and writers I quote today, a few select perhaps do—here I shall lay bare the sleeping world, and bare my soul, perhaps the rogue in me will come out:

1) Tired Rogue Poet

I feel we are being closed in! from all that I have seen—. I'm tired, otherwise I'd find some hope I suppose: finished.

I am fifty-eight years of age;

year of the water-downed bird. I am ill a lot of the time, my mind is severed from my head…

i noticed this a few nights ago— when I tired to go to bed.

#1021 12/23/2005

2) Eccentric Poet

Flesh and bone—a haunted mind; i change with my moods, my moods are my weather—. I do not blame my mind for my hallucinations it's all gossip that descends on eccentric's descends from the heavens— or seeps up from hell…!

#1022 12/05

3) The Butterfly and Me

When I'm walking, whomever I'm talking to (and it could be myself), in the mist of madness walking with, or at a café reading a book, newspaper, poetry—etc: it can appear, the moment when the poem itself manifests— like a butterfly, stretching its wings for the first time— it can appear, so I speak out!...

#1023 12/24/05

4) Christmas Madness

How many people stare into space, contemplate their faith, or capture a moment of indignity—?

Christmas is two days away; no—, 23-hours and thirty-five minutes. Woops…! Not too far off…

—and we're all standing in front of department stores; walking down malls:

#1027 12/24/05

5) Lost Worlds

There are other worlds out there to live on i'm sure—but someone doesn't want us to know—; thus, making this one, the only one, the absolute one, in place of the lost one—, the one—only they know.

#1024 12/23/2005

6) The Nature of Time

One time, is all time— and time you cannot change; barer, it can be stretched or frozen—but the nature of time remains—; a passage to eternity.

#1025 12/23/2005

7) This is About Life

Poetry recalls the memory of a past experience (existence) to whoever has forgotten— that life is the one thing that makes the universe shine and ring..!

#1026 12/24/05

8) The Squirrel Cage

They do not change in The squirrel cage— Man's old single compulsions!

#1029 12/23/2005

8) Abhorred Old Drunk

The pall old drunk stood in the street, — abhorred he stood looking at me, his severed thumb hanging by a thread, he shit in his pants, a car almost killed him; his rainbow of life, like a candle put out— I could see it in his eyes; a blank stare, not knowing what happened, hanging on to his thumb—in mid air: hanging on, on standing there, there in the street… (back in '88)…; why do I think of it now (?) it's much too late: it's Christmas Time: 2005.

#1032 12/24/05; note: sobriety is a way of life, and I can only say for those who have tasted the bitterness of the drink, I will tell you now, get out of hell's grip, before it's too late; I'm recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I'd never had made it to fifty-eight years old (I would have died back before my 40th birthday). Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. Dlsiluk

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