Wordwright
I crouch at this dusty keyboard,
And the light of early dawn slants
At depressing angles
Throughout the room. A chair,
Worn from duty, Sighs at me; I sigh back. There is no such thing.
It is but a pomegranite in my head:
So many cubicles, juicy with thought,
Wanting to get out. But one cannot bite into it, as such,
Without bluntly making a mess,
A dribble of noise,
A concatenation of words,
Either making some kind of symbiotic sense,
Or falling flat on the pallet of palaver,
A deal of nonsense.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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A Bad Day
Driving a nail through a finger, Then not able to extract the nail;
Dropping an anvil onto a reinforced-toe boot,
Then hobbling off,
All are bothersome.
Now I have been off liquor, pot, street drugs,
Lots of junk since '72.
But I retain the hubris of tobacco,
And I tried to sneak a cigar
At 3 AM, but I got busted.
There are mistakes lurking at every turn,
And at every turn
I must eat them.
My face is as cratered as the moon
With errors run into squarely.
The only light of day flowing if I do no thing.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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For One
Would good graces allow
My stiff head to bend, and
Windward, though blowing less hard,
Among the crags and sharpened stones,
I would turn about from this:
Feckless course, and gainsay
Something far less tedious than
Adultery.
I would bear tumult,
And some strife in seeking current,
Making it so.
You are not apt to know.
But you might intuit my harsh stormcloud
Approaching in the dead of thought:
I will have to fill you with words,
Rather than the brownian energy of avatars
In the smiling sun's disk.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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How To Know if You're Dead
Traversing the steppes of the midwest,
without a heart on fire,
Taking in what the blackhearted sheriffs say
and gathering guns;
Punching away at shadows of yourself,
vainglorious postures of an ego run rampant;
Evesdropping on two giggling lovers
in a trailer in the rain,
and hoping for their demise.
Go, and lie in the leaves
fallen last autumn;
snore to the sky.
If I kick you twice
in the side
it will be confirmed;
I will confirm that you have died.
It will be the not-knowing
that seals your sign.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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To Be Gone A Spell
Not admitting defeat
I embark after the
Thorny jungle of prose-
There anything goes
From airy speculation
To frothy exacerbation
A multiverse trying to convey
May make me mad
By the very first day
The nameless character who shall
Do as I say
Think in words terse and mirrored
infinitely
Everyone has 'doppelgangers'
Doing the exact same and then
Very differing things
Your 'soul's' dead ringer
If you are say
[...] Read more
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Petite
the tiniest of watercolors
by a man called Ernst
transformed me into a caterpillar
dreaming of erstwhile flight.
my wings are powder-blue
like the cloudless sky:
I crisscross continents
ever on the fly.
I don't know what I eat
-perhaps nutrition is born and bred-
(not the cowdung that would make me retch) ,
maybe it's nutrients from the air I fetch.
I alight in a predetermined tree
and chew bloated leaves-
one summer passes,
and then I leave for good.
[...] Read more
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Travelogue
Keeping a fit timetable
Is an improbable countenance
For a guy, like me, who has
Been lost, and given up for lost,
In unforgiving desert mountains.
I once lived in an abandoned
Tungsten mine in the Hualapais,
My legs outstretched on the boss'
Desk. The difference was the
Dessicated peccary underneath:
A death-doll grin, gray-matted fur.
There was fresh water in the
Mineshaft, and one other man-
Or perhaps a Minotasur-
Dwelling within.
Either way, his breath stank,
Hanging on to the still, lightless air.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Fog
All is still-
The trees across the park
Hang silent in the fog;
My mind is also quiet
And lurks in my back pocket, as I sit
Covemplative on a white slower chair.
The stars are up there, but
Cannot, of course, be seen.
It is the finest night
There has ever been.
Across the street now
A lonely couple walks by,
Hand-in-hand,
In the humid drip
Of the eaves of common condensation.
I hear no conversation,
Only their whisperings,
Of which I used to be familiar.
And even my own verbal thoughts
[...] Read more
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Freemasonry
All this trash
Like Dan B. spews,
And engulfs so many wasted hours, is best described by a simple entry in Webster:
'The act or habit of arrogating, or making undue claims in an overbearing manner; that species of pride which consists in exorbitant claims of rank, dignity, estimation, or power, or which exalts the worth or importance of the person to an undue degree; proud contempt of others; lordliness; haughtiness; self-assumption; presumption. Closely related to the act of arrogating.'
It is on the dollar bill.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Future Affects the Past
The universe has no single history. Light from some quasar
At a distance unholy
Can now be interrupted,
Thus making its origin different,
Shifting time and space itself.
If my own life were to intervene
With all my past mistakes,
The thousands of them,
And those boats I sank
Could be righted,
I would leap at the chance.
My first real love,
A sweet and brilliant girl,
Would be here with me right now;
Then there being no single reason to write this,
As we, in that reality,
Are quite engaged
In each other's hair.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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