What follows is the second best poem I've ever written, out of approximately ten total and several lost, for which I weep.  Thus I promise not to inflict any more upon your potentially poetry-sick eyes.  It's a form using 23 lines per stanza, with two stanzas (although it could potentially have any number of verses up to six) in blank verse.  It was written in May of 2001, I now think.  I was hoping for more self-mockery.  Just know that I was influenced, at the time, by James Joyce and Milton and possibly Hamlet's soliloquies. You may note some Keats in there for effect.


I don't remember knowing danger

Although once a force did propel me

fumbling down a mountain, my eyes

gorged on sight, the dark between my ears

preserved alone, my feeling pumping heart

a true cliché.  I remember then

feeling as I do; a frustrate unfulfillment;

I read myself a female Hamlet, or

inertia, a quagmired eighteenth century mold

whining for a use in the passive tense.

Falling on my senses to yield sense

I drive my eyes and ride my speeding skin

but logic won't succumb to blissful numbness

Nor energy derive from internal forces

That now mock pattern but  require truth

Persistence of perspective proves that life

is not a quantity, but quality's

color spectrum is to biology a wheel

until the redshift glow violet forgets.

The world I am retains all energy

and stasis must be moved by interaction.

When every metaphor is recognized

Even memory of pain is prized.

So originality is priceless as

the mutant gene that causes melanoma,

as unattainable as breath, desired

like a fat man in my bed, demanding

division on both sides by zero.

Apology as infinite and half

as ineffectual as possibility.

In the kitchen at the devil's party,

I steal away each value that appears

and justify confusion through absorbtion,

an entropy rested gravitational spiral.

I remember what I heard about

pessimists; and something to sing about.

I'm no maker to demand or judge,

and so have gained objectified abstracts

like love and loss of trust, and lost my lust

to sloth, all of which are everything

and thereby as immeasurable as nothing,

quanta accidentally calculated

to overwhelm. But not the dark gray matter

that bitterly laughs at polytropic trippings,

its foot a synecdocal metaphor

for minding the existence of creation.

Index   A Game of Pax   2002   2001