Stein

have I been there,
or, had I been there,
to be direct, another porch
another hello, another goddam
another dingy coat, head for the hills
just to feel, oh, just to feel, I guess,
head for your lives, it's one thing to strive,
another to survive, clingers on, wasting time,
should I have want to illuminate
why would I want to romanticize
a tome of holy lullabies for death,
let daisies circle my halo like a head,
there's nothing like a fall from the last steps,
I'm hanging out with the worst of them,
we're all fucked up,
I'm looking at a simple man
pick the small straw from my hand,
a lot is lesson sent,
for hail and high mercy,
the street lamp flickering sense,
nom: resistance,
what is it I cannot comprehend,
is there any stone in this river still thirsty,
is there any exile still at home with friends?
O cite quasi morte,
how your vines have wrapped around my bones,
I couldn't stop or put it down
and I began to rock and moan,
a dusky sort of pale pillow
if I were to call the kettle
and let you really know
the secret of my black heart
I would be unfit to show.

Sonnet Five

What can one do, if it's the trial of the self,
no, that's not exact-

What can anyone do or say to me
when my spirit is depressed? Is it due,
do my actions create an angry sea?
I understand the choice is not the crew's.
When I lose my ability to speak,
when my heart keeps on graving images,
when I find no comfort and I am weak,
when my presence is full of blemishes.
What is this, is it a transcendent grace?
Is Poetry a sensual pleasure?
If there is suffering what is the base?
Is there more to life than seeking leisure?
Passion dies by reason with love's reform,
but reason dies to passion in my storm.

Kierkegaard too,

and I, an American, too,
you know the sort of thing,
the one question for Camus, 
my raison d'etre is absurd.

Sonnet Four: On Desire, Tradition, and Individualism

If actions betray, what is it you hide,
and why is desire always at the root,
why do the vines for wine bear bitter fruit?
Take what you want and need then throw the rind.
Desire: should you respect it or ignore,
if you start the way will you find the guide,
is there any truth to things of the mind?
Part of my desire is to not conform.

Is there any problem we cannot face,
is there some old way we can't reinvent?
If tradition will always have its place,
this is our individual talent:
poetry is more than gender or race,
let's be inclusive of the whole planet.

Sonnet Three: On Jealousy and Strife, Eris and me.

'There is only one position for an artist anywhere; and that is, upright.' -Dylan Thomas, "Wales and the Artist," Quite Early One Morning, BBC radio, 1954.

A jealous mind is beset on all sides,
what might seem empty is full of envy
and discord is thrown impetuously,
there is a hidden bitterness I hide.
There is no comfort in a false pretense,
you are not only mental conditions,
it's not all just body and the functions,
sometimes, there is a deep kindness expressed.
Only love in the faces around me,
there is no comfort in a false friendship,
does anyone not know fear's deference,
does one not defer to fear equally?
If there is an open discord expressed,
I try to find my hidden bitterness.

So, this is the shoulder,
so, this is my stone;

my sister,
I should not be alone.

Sonnet Two

Not what he can do, but what he cannot.
Not the possible, but the obstacle.
Not the signified, but the parable.
Not what he's thinking, but what has been thought.
See, always with you what cannot be done.
You offer no resistance to weakness,
half-way welcoming it inside to rest.
The ones who really challenge you, you shun.
It's not love to share, but it's fear embraced.
There are many reasons to retire,
but only one to keep climbing higher.
If it's not greatness, what else can you chase?
I would not wish depression on any,
two perspectives in me, both are ready.