I am: the fundamentalist agnostic; the weird-shaped thing; the madman paranoid in my enlightenment, enlightened in my paranoia;
I am: celebratory of my celibacy; caustic but not callous; confused by insight; particular and peculiar, under-lapping, sideways, diagonal.

Okay, today's first poem is an oldie. My friend says she likes it, but other friends say they don't. Sorry, I am not in the mood to proof-read this to make sure it is acceptable for this blog.

In this Beginning {not the biblical {definitely not the biblical {for I have real problems {God, do I have some real problems} with the Bible {and mostly with how it {the Bible} is interpreted by the Masses}}} Beginning {Oh, maybe a little biblical in this beginning}} {a Beginning much as the End {not the biblical {either} End {for the biblical end is just an apocalypse} {but the End I’m referring to {the End much as the {non-biblical} beginning} is but an apocollapse {Apocollapse: the final collapse of the Universe to a point {by gravity or by its sheer evil}}}} there was only thought {whose thought, I do not know{some {those biblical-types again most likely} would say God {but God must then transcend time {which some {those biblical types again } would say He {She? It? } does} {anyway}}}}. {Look, a period!} But this thought had only itself {thought itself} to ponder {and maybe a few visions of naked super-models {assuming God {if we’re indeed talking about God’s thoughts here} enjoys staring at super-models {if I were God {and I thought I was God once, though now I don’t} the super-models would all be short and fat {beauty is subjective} {though the way tall and thin people are treated in our society has me believing that God {the God of America, anyway} enjoys seeing tall and thin women}}} to ponder in the magazines {magazines existing before time ?{before reality there was only the surreal}}}. Then thought wrote a poem {maybe structured like this poem {with levels within levels and self-reference} {Is this a poem really?}} about itself and the Universe {What kind of universe did it write about, I wonder {and so did it {thought} wonder}?}. The poem {and therefore thought itself} so impressed thought that it decided to exist {in a capacity other than in a state of existing only for its own sake {and relative only to itself}}. And so thought said, “Let there be Everything!” {This definitely seems kind of biblical.} And then thought decided, “Hey, I’m going to have my name capitalized from now on {Thought}.” And then Thought looked down {or within} upon the Universe {not just the Earth {as those biblical-types would {probably} have you believe}{not just any particular one thing at all {for that matter}}} and thought about Thought {thinking about thinking is the essence of consciousness} and thought about its creation {everything that exists {not just for Thought’s sake}} and realized all {should that {all} be capitalized too? {All}} was vile {at least in Thought’s estimation } and hate-filled {there is so much about the Universe that is hatred incarnate {all bigotry and anger within us {including you and me}{we wish the worst for our “enemies” {who are our real enemies? {you and me}}} all of this hatred {this pleasurable hatred}} including {yes} you and me}. And so Thought said, “Fuck this!” {Thought ceases to be anything but apathetic. {Thought ceases to think even about thought.}} ..............................
The End {not the biblical end {though in some ways, yes, the biblical end}}


I haven't written a poem like that in several years. There is one more parentheses poem I wrote write after the one above. Some people like it (mostly women). Some people despise it.
Here is that one.

The Question
----------------

And the lovers {they didn’t realize that they were lovers yet {they hadn’t even met}} moved closer {they were originally across the room {a 30’ by 50’ room} from each other} and closer {moved by unseen {and {therefore} taken at faith} forces {What kind of forces? {fate? gravity? the gods of lust and passion?}}} to each other, until their gazes {their wandering gazes} met {by accident or by those forces {those unseen forces}}. What happened next was of infinite {in the rhetorical sense of the word} consequence. {For they felt {both felt} such lust and possibility. {But this was purely superficial {as it always is}.}} They felt {both felt} such indecision {proceed or retreat?}. For if they proceeded {as unknown {but hoped} by them}, their lives would of been forever changed {Drinks? Yes. Dates. Sex. Passion. Love. Marriage. Etc.}. If they {on the other hand} retreated then their lives would continue as before {Loneliness. Watch TV. Masturbate. Write poetry of loss.}. They hesitated {for what seemed an hour {but was actually 3/8 second}}. Then the decision {both making the same decision {a consequence of their compatibility}}. Look away {quickly}. {“Hopefully the other didn’t realize that I’m a pervert.” {They both {a consequence of their compatibility {again}} thought.}}. And so, into the night {such a typical night {filled with loneliness and poetry of loss}} they escaped back into {never to see each other again {except when they next masturbated {their soul-mate seen in their minds}}} the night {a night of loneliness and darkness {yet such enlightenment {the enlightenment of loneliness}}}. And so they finally became lovers {3/8 second lovers} {but now only in their fantasies {such superficial fantasies}}, such lonely lovers, joined only by intention {and intention is all we sometimes ever really have {Isn’t it?}.


Like I said, these two are the only poems of this type I have written.

Here is one more recent poem, randomly-picked, something more conventional in style:

Clockwork Made Strange
------------------------

Disjointed are these wheels and gears of such
Clockwork made strange by its angles drawn,
By its arcs and atoms placed darkly into this
Rhombus, into the swirling prongs of our
Pernicious hallucinations. The trapezoid has
Been subdivided so as to be perpendicular
And substantive. And it ticks in its form
Of horizontal diagonality, in its forms seen
By time ascending into sterile asymptotes.
And turning are the cogs, are these spindles
Inside where we have mutated. Turning are
The uncounted hours, each devoid of revolution,
Each rotating ambidextrously the assumptions
Of truth afloat among the wires, yet among
The geometry of those complications, of that
Causality encircled by the permutations of
Thoughts asymmetric and coarsely intricate
But undisclosed.


Okay, one more. Encore!


The Egg Pretended
--------------------

The egg pretended to envelope itself in its
Pretension. And it pretended to redeem itself
In consequence and trite shadows. For it
Contained a white of imbalance and purity.
Yet, such was selfish, if it too was bland.
It contained a yolk of its own ghost. And
In this yellow syrup of implication, it saw
The shapelessness of perfect substance. And
Surrounding that dichotomy of white and yolk
Was the frail skin of soft solidity, the shell.
And such a coarse glass of calcium carbonate
Faltered. Then it shuddered, then split, forming
The lines askew of random firmament. This bone,
This ellipsoid, it cracked. And forth came our
Longing and chasm. Forth came our betrayal
Never to be remade. For the young bird
Is to die. And the flesh of this zoological seed
Excretes until we provoke its timidity. And we
Pretend that we did not shatter that egg.
We pretend that it is meaningless to our
Dream, pretend that it was meaningless to
Our decay overwhelmed by such circumvention.

See you all later.

Leroy Quet