my town melted into grief &

my town melted into grief &
solidified to 1950s robotica.  it is
an alone-thing now my
town a clanking
sputtering machine. i try
to leave but this people-
mover takes me back
again.  i imagine there is
life within somewhere a sense-
able human being
but maybe not: those
whirring spinning shining
blades are
moving in.

no hope for primates

no hope for primates
with teeth
filed to blood
by designer genes,
hungry for the pit
& questing
for eternal verities:
conquest, rape & peer
reviews. 
        the old men
play you fine
young fellows,
simple in your need
for shiny bits of armor
& the chest-to-chest
camaraderie of
the hoplites.

turn turn turn

let us raise our voices
in malevolence.  let us
sing our disbelief.
let us praise lucifer,
or reason, or the perfect clarity
of the waters off the cuban shore.

let us do something,
anything, unlike
what has come before.

all poems are political

all poems are political
transparent or covert
all poems promote
the tales that they tell

so you're happy with your win
the lucky ticket of your first-world skin
enjoy the leisure of your days
your wheelbarrow full of peaches
your quest for tenure or
organic mayonnaise whatever
's on the docket for the day

all poems are political & those
pretending otherwise are most
of all: their screeds of status
& quo pervasive as a billion
dollar desert full of drones

the arrogance the hubris of it
that words the mud & straw
of ideation could be anything but
political?  only in the fairy-land
that is america could such absurdity
be spoken.  all
poems are political

& you are,
too.

this pill

will give
you a spring
in your step

as you walk
into the whirring
blades
of destiny

a poem must be culpable & meek

a poem must be culpable & meek,
a drone permitted, but not a chant
to recombinant revolution
in the street.  that way tenure
does not lie, or selection in 'best
amerikan poetry twenty-three.'

poems

i am surprised to encounter solids.

words are whispered: like conspiracy.

i do not anthropomorphize. not even myself.

the grit from the wind is entirely fictitious.

if all is not well: we have a pill for that.

..........

a hungry choir: voices
from an empty room heard
through a closed door.

(a single spider murderous
on the hardwood floor)

i hear the sound of torture thick
as paint
on unwashed walls.

..........

my language is the wind heard
by solitary ears

my words are the night whispered
like conspiracy

this text trapped
in glass

.

all the light in the room

all the light in the room

the uncertainty of surface: the
whiteness of it.

a figure: a woman
& words: something about a tray
& tea. her voice could incite
sympathetic vibrations from piano strings.

i want to put my fingers to her face.

we were lovers once.
we no longer embrace.

metaphysic tone poem collection

prayer poem psalm screeds
fungal spore mushroom magick
language apples of the sun
invocations of the skin
 truths of the poet tongue






http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie/dp/1499200250/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1398122485&sr=8-2&keywords=william+clunie

dispatches from the frontal lobe

new ebook on kindle, also, hard copy available:


http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie-ebook/dp/B00JSWGHDK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398122123&sr=1-1