I AM NOT A POET (since 1987)

Peter Paul Rubens / Saturn, Jupiter’s father, devours one of his sons / 1636-1638 / Oil on Canvas / 180 cm x 87 cm / Courtesy: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rubens_saturn.jpg

Circle, i return to the rock, traversing tides of infinite seas of nothingness, to the birth

Placerville California Mother Cynthia & Me @ Marshall Hospital #Blame

pregnancy, labor pains, strain and placental push: Mother leaves for a cigarette inside the lounge 1987 times are different

Trial begins, for 31 years in the dock, convictions, convictions and convictions there aren’t any witnesses for the defendant. Jehovah Witness My Suffering? No. Not here. Not now.

Young boy in meadow, recalling waking dreams of Majestic Wolf Packs by seasonal ponds, with stick as early monastic training, life early led to solitary,

Confinement of Bible pages, grandpa Robert from Watchtower looks out surveying lands of poverty, can he tell? Can I tell? St. Christopher allows me to enjoy pleasures of flesh and erect statues to Bacchus, we have no red wine, just a Crimson Picaro in setting twilight darkness under blankets made for sexual play and guilty accretions

mushrooming, amassing cancerous levels of guilt. Tea, will you have sugar with your tea? I am asked some 20 years later in cold London cafe, what are you going to Trial

For I am not ready to answer, a thyroid cyst blocks speech, must be the accumulation of debris, convictions

Gay? Guilty. Criminal? Guilty.

1987 trial begins, never ends, now 31, still told I am X, Y and Z. Jaywalking, cultural hegemony, fraud, taking advantage of a woman’s vulnerability, all that money you took, you fucking crook, and then comes the digital look, the gaze of the honorable men and women, the Jury of the presaging events auguring harbingers of ghosts that came from closets so long ago: what was the color of my face before my parents copulated?

Return to the rock, wind tells me nothing more than this. And so I press my hand on shower glass as hot water falls on white skin reddened

I recall Judge John & His Merry Men, and the twelve Gnomes who sent me to the place of bars & steel for stealing and what does that mean, in any event they have always made a criminal out of me, alchemy is a wondrous admixture of pleasure and infinite loops of pain

do they know where i go when i go to the stream? imperfect. simply. eternal success without obstacles, i met her, privileged, horse family, elite country parochial punctuated

this cycle, recursive loops are infinite, yet there is more than one infinite,

i n v e r t

c o n m a n

f r a u d not f r e u d

h e ‘ s t o o c l e v e r

t h r o w h i m a w a y a n d l o c k u p t h a t key

punishment should be perpetual, eternal without obstacles: सत्यमेव जयते

and yet i am reminded of Wolf Packs in Year of Earth Dog, Spring Cleaning

call i what ye want and i will say where is my barrel of salty goo

Go to the stream, fill the bucket of Mind and find the Fish That Overcomes, He Will Lead You to the rock, that’s what the wind tells me.

Anyways, I was already tried & convicted in February 1987

(so shoo, shoo & away)


One comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s