Haunting Thoreau
He was burly, thick of thigh,
And could construct
Meeeting costcutting demands.
More, he could write like the devil,
Accounting the country.
And he had a Pond.
But I have a shack
And a rivulet fresh,
Only lemongrass extract
-(I smell like a grove) -
Deer are out there, and one bear
At least.
I have my music playing on Mp3.
Ravel: how did he come up with that?
Still Thoreau haunts the woods to the south.
Maybe all the woods of the world.
He can write evenly and quickly.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Screamers
The men who screamed the most had amputated legs;
The men who screamed the least had only bad haircuts;
In between
The eyeless socket-men roared instead of wept.
The earless bloody-necked men shouted dully;
The armless twitching men sniffed the air;
The castrated men lay in total silence, peering off into space.
The official men in their prefabricated buildings
Toasted their savior with much vodka, straightening their uniforms,
Singing merrily into the delightful night.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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A Quote
Tristan Tzara, dada's papa,
Wrote that, if one can understand a piece
Of art, it is nothing but the product
Of journalism. I agree in ways piling up,
Wanting art to look good, sound good,
Or fly well; not necessairily be understandable.
I fell into a wishing-well when I was twelve,
And never got rescued.
So I did not marry and become a philosopher
Like Socrates - I am not enamored by young boys, either.
But to become a poet is not
A challenge, but a deep pit of cold mud.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Ah! Shoreline
Clownfish, just a wiggle in water...
The plankton is its stamina.
What is the point?
I see the seacumbers hardly alive
And black bacteria wishing to evolve...
The lens of the tank makes me their Escher..
But what of that is understood here?
They are flooded with light that they do not even need:
It is for us to entertain.
Men, sitting in the seashore,
Wonder worried if the theories of evolulution
Will bear viable fruit;
And suspect that their wives are being unfaithful.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Great Pyramid at Giza
First, I can only think
Of the work, the strain, the backs, the bricks;
But the Egyptians had good medicine,
And it kept the workers going.
Khufu's memory was completely
Looted. Strabo himself called
Attention to it,
Prior to the Arab caliph's arrival.
Where is that gold now?
On your finger,
In your teeth?
And is gold always defiled, like it seems?
The curse of the mummies
Follows us as shadows,
For nations are also built with gold;
And the dust of gold with nations.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Seat
Wet ancient beards saw
The seat of being
As a muscular davenport
Encircled by a dome of ribs.
Their thunder was the entrails
Looping below. Love was sated
In the loins, it made perfect sense,
And the earth being flat
Chained all the stars to the ground.
Grumbling gods determined
Fate, had walking-sticks for sex parts,
Having made all the things.
But in spurts revolutions came,
Meeting steely resistance,
Falling heads, a tumult of wrath,
That given time
Became self-evident.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Mahler on Black Friday
Among the fools of commerce
Tempers flare;
Little or nothing makes sense:
Buyer beware.
There are carts loaded with angels,
Spraypainted with silvery dust,
Fictitious scenes of mangers
Down the throats of children thrust.
Somewhere in a forgotten corner
Lies a copy of Mahler's Sixth:
The tragedy of being human,
The suffering of existence,
No one buys the recordiing
As grubby hands envelop candy canes,
No end to all the mindless hoarding,
Stocking up for next year again.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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My Heart
As there is depth to the ocean
There is an infinite calling to my heart:
The variety of sparks flying
Tragically evolve from one
To many
To all-consuming.
These sparks may be wings
(Sudden flutter of wings) ,
Sad large brown eyes
Of cattle, horse or donkey
Preceding their cruel bending
At the hands of humans;
The sparks can be stars
Or many stars, galaxies.
The dead are calling to me.
My heart is an open container.
It is not really my property;
It is the conclusion of my pain.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Celeste
celeste left me hanging
she hung up the phone
we were at odds
changing
she was
a certain woman
certainly a woman
i was a diving man
diving into the vortex
a whirling hole
i was an ugly man
all i did with that silent phone
was cough & sneeze
she wasn't there any more
she might as well be in montana
i just put on music
and cried my best
i'd go up to montana to find her
[...] Read more
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Black Overhang
I first saw it in the scolding Senora Desert,
When the bats descended enmasse to pollinate the saguaros,
Flittering over my nighthead, curious as mammals can be,
But posing no threat. I rather welcomed their
Vision of catastrophic gloom.
But the rocky lava overhead pulled in my attention;
It was a place for keeps: a place worthy of return.
I spied the spring, so that meant a dismal man could
Live out his years there.
It smoldered in black poetic;
I would return to it soon and for good.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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