Sunday, September 22, 2013


There is no white
As white
As white remembered

There is no poem
As white
As white remembered

Saturday, December 17, 2011

58. Definitions

comes the definition of love
between two
comes the definition of love
then three

comes the definition of love,
man, woman
comes the definition of love,

comes the definition of love,
mother, father

comes the definition of love,
the country

comes the definition of love,
the Buddha

comes the definition of love,
whispers of all

Saturday, November 26, 2011

57. Point In Living

What is the point in living?
There is no point in living.
Because in living
there is no singularity.
The number of points in living
is a small infinity.

Friday, April 2, 2010

56. About the Author

Mr. G has been writing poems, two or three a year, for the last 40 years.
He does not think he has a method and is not even sure if his lines should be considered poetry.
Whatever they are they came to him from god—knows—where and have strong meaning to him but may mean nothing to others.
He realizes it is very presumptive to try to send them out when they will probably be considered sophomoric or ignorant by serous poets. (or, maybe it could be considered brave?)

Mr. G collects poems and goes goes thru several poetry books a week looking for poems he likes.
Mr. G rarely finds a poem he likes.
Some of the reasons for this is that he dislikes poems that use the following words: I, my, our, we, you.
These pronoun poets reminds him to much of the many people he has met who have only one boring subject, themselves.

Also, Mr. G can’t stand poet angst.
He also dislikes poems that anthropomorphize things, such as, 'the cloud cried', 'the water smiled' etc.
He also dislikes lines that are indented for no reason that he can determine.
These dislikes, and others that he cant articulate, means he can go thru a book of poems in ten minutes.
So far, out of the thousands of poems Mr. G has tried to read, he has found 800 poems he likes.
He is not interested in determining why they appeal to him.

Mr. G considers poetry the essence of language and his poems are the essence of his language.
Actually, his poems are really one poem broken into little pieces.
None of his poems have ever been completed.

Mr. G does not welcome your criticism but realizes that your conceit in thinking you know what the hell he is talking about will probably mean he will throw it away and keep on doing what he likes.
A self taught poet ... (I know I know)

Mr. G has spent the first thirty years of his life growing up, the second thirty years working, and the third forty years plus (knock, knock) doing whatever he damn well pleases (he is also a believer in the Oxford coma).
He collects round rocks, natural not man made.
He also collects the flyers that fortune tellers put on car windshields, any additions to these collections would be appreciated.
Mr. G. lives in the nicest city in America and feels pity for those who do not.
But, he would like to state that if there is anyone with an apartment in Manhattan who would let him stay for any month of the year he would be glad to dedicate a poem to him/her/it.
Mr. G attended Noble Elementary school in Detroit, Michigan

Mr. G has never won a poetry prize or a prize of any kind.
His heart was broken when at the age of seven he lost his first and last bag jumping contest.
He has never entered a contest since.


Friday, September 4, 2009

55. Infinity Begins At The Thumb

From: Brodie's Report by Jorge Luis Borges.

"I have spoken of the king and queen; I will now say something about the witch doctors. I have mentioned that there are four of them; this number is
the largest that the Yahoos' arithmetic comprehends. They count on their fingers thus: one, two, three, four, many, infinity begins at the thumb"

Infinity begins with the thumb and connects you
to the rest of infinity between one and two.

Past the thumb everything is other,
not me, not you
that which is beyond us,
everything else,
the completion/complexion of a circle, of infinite other.

The witch doctors knew.
We are surrounded by infinity
We are filled with infinity
We are infinity

Our touch circle - hard-bound.
Our smell circle - expanding and contracting.
Our vision circle - far reaching.
Our hearing circle - hits of molecules.
Our empathy circle - complexions of concerns.

The four of us and then the many.
The saint may encompass those past four
but we cannot see beyond our reach.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

54. As My Nation Grows

As my nation grows
it expands as branches do from trunk to stem,
from nation to citizen
and we as rivulets flow together to
become a great river.

What flows out of us makes our greatness.
What flows into us creates the humanity
of a new destiny.

The fragility of greatness.
The decay of greatness.
The parts that decay.
the parts that grow.

The growth of understanding you/they are us
and need our help.
Spreading compassion with our wealth,
consigning political openness, free expression,
religions galore
and walls of laws.

Concentrations of compassions,
dispensations of tolerance
with the strength of forgiveness.

Alike in our dichotomy.

And in our future, the complete American,
with a Chicano smile, Asian eyes,
African tans, Nordic hair, Roman noses.
We Americans, a product of the whole godgiven world.

Friday, May 1, 2009

53. Willie Nelson Warms

Sitting in this cold room
listening to Willie Nelson
I realize that music warms,
I don't think science knows this yet.

God bless you Mr. Nelson
for warming an old man
with 'old worn out memories' and
'themselves and their slow moving dreams'.
Transforming sound into a warm glowing inebriation.
Inebriation's of vibrations.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

52. My City

There are wonderful places in my city,
mirrors behind counters reflecting forgotten visions,
warm wood beer bars,
parks that disappear in
vertical streets, views of blues and whites,
corners that aren't, apexes of angles,
controlling colors, that only
the aware know and love.

Unknown by newspapers, televisions, radios,
tourists, concierges, incomers.
of awareness where
dabbles of happenings
created places that were cases of misunderstandings.

We aware
keep them to ourselves
attending them with private pleasure and hidden love.
Outliers happy to have our special moments there where
the verbals
are unaware that something special
is about.

We, the aware, who are strangers to each other
glance across the room and recognize our kinship.
The understanding of unique beauty placed before us.
Visual LSD.

A melding perception of us
into a clarity of you, me,
in this together.

Look, see, feel, enjoy,
be aware.
Understand the silence that surrounds you
and enjoy the confusions.
Learn to ignore the language
controlling your thoughts.

Friday, April 17, 2009

51. The Stuff Of Atoms

The stuff of atoms that came from everywhere all the time
merged into:
folded into:
joined into:
energized into:
togethered into:
turned into:
twisted into:
cahoots into:
a minded body

that looked around and became a continuing.

That is why it is so important to
eat your cereal with a smile and
keep those babies coming.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

50. Cracks

The truth is I measure cracks.
A life spent in measuring cracks
is not understood,
walls, floors, ceilings are easy
but then there are sidewalk cracks
that depend upon my mothers back.
Cracks are big in my mothers world.

Inches of space are big in my world.
To see them everywhere
requires belief
in the uncertitude of future events.

Hairlines in bones
are mercies of unknowing.

A life spent measuring cracks
means you live alone
in small rooms.
Boxes of pressure.

The street you walk on is
moving by unfelt forces
and the three ravens flying overhead
have meaning.