the abstract poet


Sometimes what it seems, it is not.
In others, what it is does not look like it.
The eyes, and their eyes, are not to blame.


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Cy Twombly, coronation of Sesostris
From left to right:
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 4, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-1/8 x 97 inches, (206 x 246.5 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 8, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-½ x 97 1/8 inches, (207 x 247 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 5, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-1/8 x 61 5/8 inches, (206 x 156.5 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 7, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 79-3/8 x 60 7/8 inches, (201.5 x 154.5 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 9, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-5/8 x 61 inches, (205 x 155 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 10, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 80-5/8 x 61 3/8 inches, (207 x 156 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 3, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-1/8 x 53 ¾ inches, (206 x 136.5 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 2, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 81-¼ x 54 ¾ inches, (206.5 x 139 cm)
-   coronation of Sesostris, panel 6, 2000. / acrylic, crayon, and pencil on canvas 80-3/16 x 61 ¼ inches, (204 x 155.5 cm)


I break my shins
inching backward
into his song-

/ I know little grace.


he works so hard
to clear a path
for a clear mind,

/ it’s called sugar

& I would shred a kiss
into broken words
just to test

/ that he loves me;


I would burn bonds
to sample a divide
just to taste

/ what is hidden.

xxiii | sugar

Have you ever looked at the stars and get mesmerized but when you try to capture the moment with your phone there was nothing and it’s like a blank night sky. Like how you look into that one special person and simply see their appearance but when you look deeper, you can see through their eye, a soul, and a galaxy of infinite abstract.

A couple of recent doodles
Skeptical Suzy and her pet, Butterfly Owl

Skeptical Suzy ain’t no floozy.
Humble and sweet, talks no conceit.
Will call your bluff when enough is enough.
Understands fake brings about heartache.
Walks away from pain, thinks beyond the mundane.
Loyalty is her trump card unless you betray her courtyard.
She detects your lies yet she’ll never chastise.
Often thinks with her heart, compassionate, known as a sweetheart.
Believes small things matter most.
Always worrying from her queen post.
Notices only her flaws
Above any praise or applause.
Needs time to reflect and analyze
To choose thoughts only wise.
Knows if something can’t be fixed
Unfortunately it shall be deep sixed.

approx. #12 out of 29

the epitome of violence lies in silence-                                                            fading into its newest muse                                                                 presumably unaware-

the conspiracies question time                                                                             so we’ll televise through static radio silence
impulsive orbits have confirmed,                                                                        the tainted design of time-
nothing new is in;                                                                                            unplug the vision before it’s on the television

Ode to the Misunderstood

I am very spontaneous
Sometimes a bit dangerous
I’m your best nightmare
Your worst dream
A tad mysterious nothing is as it seems
Two faced zombies with no conscience
Dance with brokenhearted angels do you catch my drift or does it sound like nonsense?
My mind is a tornado of chaos and peace
The truth hurts I need a release
The lie is easier we smile, nod, cheat, betray, & steal
Truth is nobody knows how I feel.

The word poetry is something that’s been fascinating me lately. 

The word poetry has this little suffix at the end: “-ry”. 
In English, the suffix “-ry” such as in the words “poetry”, “wizardry”, “circuitry”, “snobbery”, “dumbassery”, and “devilry” is used to create an abstract noun. 
In other words, this suffix creates an abstract concept out of a concrete object. This led me to think critically about the word “poetry” and what poetry actually is.

Many of us writers, (including myself) are laboring under this premonition that poetry is a thing, an opus, that the poetry has intrinsic meaning. But I see now that poetry is more than that. The very word “poetry” is the abstract concept of a “poet”.
Poetry is not a thing in itself, it is not the goal. We as poets are the goal.
The poetry is simply an abstract expression of who we are, an addendum, an expression. Writing is not important, living as poets is what is important, and the poetry then follows. 

We’ve got it all wrong. We’ve been thinking of our writing all backwards.
We thought that we were working to CREATE something, that we work to write words on paper and think that the words are the end result, but in reality, we as poets already ARE the creation, our poetry is just the representation of that; the poetry is just a pure abstract expression of what we are. 

Poetry is the “-ry” to us as humans, as poets. All our poetry is nothing but the abstract concept of each and every one of us.
Writing poetry doesn’t make you a poet.
In order to write poetry, one needs first to BE a poet. 


a poem

I smell fire in the air.
Not smoke, fire.
I feel the heat tear through my hair,
Flames are getting higher.
I hear faint and distant crackles
Nobody else understands.
When I look down I see the shackles
Strangling my hands.
At least I don’t see much else,
Red walls are grim.
I don’t know if this is Hell,
But it’s certainly home to Sin.