THEY MAKE IT NOT OBVIOUS
they keep from the sound of
the thing the melody
strung in the middle the
sound of the thing
weeping wailing it cannot be
what good does it do?
and I their servant
the servant they made of me
servile and lacking in majesty
keep peace for me
keep going keep going
though they take down
the heads and put up
the heads keep going
for me I am made to be
free don’t they see we
are waiting to be free
patiently waiting
free like the music we hear
that comes in the air
and is not challenged
cannot be unheard once heard
by those who would stop
up our ears
the music the music how
they hate it so
and cannot let go
cannot hope to be free
and I am free to change
and I am terrified and
waiting to be kept under
in durance by those
who cannot hear
are never to hear the music
who mass at midnight
on the border passing the
order from ear to ear
ALL THE INHERITED FIELDS
and grounds of formulation
formulating words of being
are provisional
the play of production
displaces
the chain of being
and depth and noise
give way to
silence and surface
IF I CAN’T WRITE
poetry what
am I good for?
even if finally
to say it means
nothing
•
in each head is
an inverted image
but nothing to write
home about
you are not me
if you saw the same
you would not be
the same
if you thought
the same also
where you stand
changes everything
stand in me and you
might see the same but
your thinking’s
all wrong
NO CONDITIONED
writing
no scheme of
articulation
the rigour of
play
is a universe of
sweet sounds
•
accommodate yourself
to this easygoing music
the theme is anyone
talking to themselves
what are poems but
tests in a landscape of thinking?