#poststructuralist

POETS: LOVERS

poets, lovers

do not

write to each other

there is nothing

that the pen

might not

misconstrue

the text

ripples, extends

finds

ever widening-spirals

and there it is

wrong dot on

the page

that universe of distance

bursting forth, already

in its

Pessimist: The cup is half empty

-camille paglia, sexual personae

FRESH FRUIT

On the farm

I wonder

about the ideology

of a tree

the entire tree:

roots, leaves, branches

cannot

escape asking myself

what haiku currently

courses

through the flowers

Of course

this is (dear reader, I

do recognise) a

category

mistake

of the first order, and will

no doubt, none too late,

be brought

to my attention amidst

much

wild snarling

and thus forgive me

my contextualizing in a poem

how much theory

pervades

everything (truly

it is in

its nature

to be an invasive species)

and Fall and Autumn and

all those mellow feelings

much

written about

some ode or other

that leaf to dead leaf

is

remembered

all the wherefores and whys

as to how

this system getting greener

came

not just

to be but

into conscious being

ruthless and polite both

stuck in a rut this day whilst

supposed

of infinite variety

and my voice

estranged, coming back

to me alien

as if

freshly arrived, in awe of

all capacity to

shift the

word of perspective

IN TRUTH

in truth

we must

despite all its

articulations

obfuscations

poetry is

a species of denial

exposing and hiding from

what we

know

but refuse to see

many times have I confessed

to

and debated this

consulting my Muse

best at

providing unique

analysis

as to why these words

never say

what I wish

they would say

reveal what

I pray they might

reveal

just play that game

of signs

AND FEEL

they told me to write

fill

the page

I wrote and

I wrote

but the page

kept getting longer

tried

wtiting in circles

writing into

the mirror

but it

did not really help me

I wrote

and I wrote

page

keeps getting

longer

they told me to

write what

I see