Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Albert Huffstickler

You live on my lips

in waves of sound
that precede me. I mourn
you as if you were my own
grandfather, underground grandmaster

You live on my lips

And with the clanking of metal against glass
ashes fall, like a gavel, but not so judgmental
adjourning to the silence in this room.


Monday, October 24, 2005

Before I Knew


I am mad, but exist in this
world when I can. I have managed
to start a family, screw their minds up
and, years later, I am beginning
to do right by them. I feel poetry

is the path, for I follow no man
no religion. I just write. Though I was born
in 74, I feel no other has spoken to me
like me, as you have done, through Poetry Motel

Your words, the way they have made me cry
sigh, hold the book against my chest and stare
into nothing but my soul has compelled me to write you

I would like to know you
of course, I already do
but, perhaps, see you, read to you

Even though I have no money
I would gather and go to you

I once knew wealth, monetary wealth
and now peering into this funnel of time
I comprehend that its value exists only
in a cosmetic world, so-called reality

enabling our bodies to move from place to place


I wrote this just days ago for Albert Huffstickler. The man's work was uniquely human.

  • Promise of Light

  • moon phase info
    My Photo
    Location: Far Side of Sanity

    And the iguanas dance in the desert/a thousand miles away from this place/and this face: stoned immaculate.

    "Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of "POETRY" "Hang on to your hopes my friend; That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again." ~ Paul Simon

    Powered by Blogger

    "Imagination is more important than knowledge." ~ Albert Einstein