Makeshift Minds

The indefinite boundaries
confine you to a room
(or a coffin)
to explore the room is to move
forward then a back, ramming a log into a medieval fortress.
Chisel away at that wall. Make it crack
wide open.
expanding that boundary yet may be possible
stretch it like a womans skin around a developed fetus
Taught. Vibrating
with all your thought
It is peaceful inside the wall (or the womb)
see peace within the self - extend peace to what is outside the self?
let them in!
imperialists or the mind - or soul?

Still stuck in this tumultuous room (or womb?)
hot sticky and evil
let them in...
extension of the mind. Amoeba eating lunch in the tepid pool of unwanted water

Open the flood gate of the room (..womb..) move out
FREE
ly
Inconsistant is organic
Makeshift dwellings give no shelter

Scale the wall, open the door

-the colonel

Not a Thought

He tried to order his insanity and

that was his third mistake. It is

reality that is ordered; insanity’s

where everything is real. Brought

his feet into and out of two holy

hydrogens and an oxygen but “my

halves are carbon, I am fiber, I am

a liar – try to follow if you can.” So

they listened and interpreted insinuations

that autonomy had a part to play in Ultimate

Demise: The Rise and Fall of that lump

in your throat – where’d it come from? I

‘d blame Jesus. He wanted to feel (second

mistake). There are better ways to notice

blood than to get a crowd screaming for

it. Appetites eat or want enough only

to momentarily sate, you soon find the

same void dressed in wolf pelt. It’s always

howling. She got pregnant and I can’t

stand getting stoned or stoning (even

in a voyeuristic sense) so I let that

baby get all born (first mistake.)

-the ambassador

Deities and Definitions

When deities fall,

webs collapse with them, leaving

citizens wishing we

could still communicate.

Our eyes are pink

but LEDs no longer blink

so we can tell we're shit

out of luck.

I continue to spill words

on you; it turns

out they mean even less

without a god to define them

-and, more importantly, who

I am-

so all these little molecules curl

down the drain and out

of sight.

No mean, no message

in the ether, just inconsistent

ciphers; I

know not who you are

but we speak in emergencies.

-the ambassador

Midwestern Hospitality

God, dear brother,

do you see me breathing here,

seething here intimately,

communing consistently with

angels and delinquents

screaming for anarchy in

Chicago?

Go home. This isn't mine.

Delilah, I think,

you've moved me inappropriately.

I'd never say this on my own.

Alleviate my sensibilities,

too often I submit to

rationalities and do not

listen to myself.

I must go back to

Chicago.

Oh, this aching foot of

mine. How it drags;

how it holds me aloft.

I'm answering the phone

with halted breath.

Situation! Location! Temptation!

Since both the colonel and I have posted poetry on here at this point, I figured I'd dip my toes into how I, at least, view poetry.

Poetry is about movement. There is movement from the title to the body, from word to word, line to line, and stanza to stanza. The movement, the path of a poem can dictate its meaning - or if there's any meaning to it at all.

A poem is not and should not be about the author's emotional state - instead, it rests entirely on the emotions evoked in the reader. As a poetry professor of mine once said, poetry today has far too much "I" and not enough art. The ego of the poet can often get in the way, making language in their poems too personal. This is not to say that poetry should not be intimate - and I'm certainly not hating on first-person poetry - but a truly personal poem must be approached with caution.

There are only three more things I have to say at the time (although I'm sure that over the next few days I'll be constantly hitting myself for leaving so much out), and the first is that poetry - and I'm speaking of mine in particular, but I can think of quite a few poets this applies to - has a creatively destructive element. That is to say, the linguistic violence contained within the act that is the poem is also productive. It produces thoughts, emotions, inspiration, and catharsis. As such, poetry is an exploration, both for the poet and the reader. It is about widening the space of the location in which language can perform.

Finally, I'll close with a thought on form from one of my favorite poets, Frank O'Hara. He had this to say: "As for measure and other technical apparatus, that's just common sense: if you're going to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you."

To be continued.

-the ambassador

Ship of Fears

America has been set free
She flies
Full mast on the ground
Screaming to the atmosphere
Keep them at bay
Narcissistic bastards they are
Create rules for me
Die for me
I never wanted it
Do not die for me
I would not die for you
How do you think I have grown so old?
There is no heart of gold
Only lust
Take what is yours I will not shelter you

America sails again
Tie us together
With lies and this game
People have fallen for the slogan
What is to this phallic affiliation of hope and pride?

One (or Two at a Time)

There is a conundrum

some find facing them

(and I am no stranger

to this specific indecision)

when it comes

to the question:

shall we walk?

shall we drive?

On the one foot,

there is time to let

a topic or theory

or logic or query

really blossom (or evolve,

if your method is such)

and go where it may.

Then, and then again,

on the other, ass,

bubbled intimacy can

lead to spontaneously arousing

verbal double-backing,

and so I tell hands and self:

Pick your Prison.