Question

Could I become
rarified, pared
down to my
essentials:

a raw form,
bleeding light;
experimental?

Can I change,
transmogrify me
through this verse,

and opening,
become expanding
Universe?

---

Gunshot

When the bullet leaves the
gun, does it miss its cool embrace,
does it long for cold arms round it
as it rifles and spins?

As it races, tumbling,
headlong in its journey thro' space
does it wonder at its passing,
at its rushed oblivion?

And when it's bashed and
twisted, compressed beyond all grace,
does it care much for the mush
that it got embedded in?

---

Poetry

As I write these
love songs,
reducing constantly
and consistently
to an even paste,
I wonder sometimes
whether shorn of
any meaning in the
quest for perfection,
anyone else will
understand?