A BLACK DOG IN THE DARK

it comes.
it goes.
it feeds.

the random thought.
the black-dog thought.
it comes and goes.

and pisses on your leg.

and hides in doorways
where the vagrants beg

for a penny
for your thought.

“Bring out your dead.
Bring out your dead”

the pushcart man
calls out at every door
where a black dog barks
and a beggar begs

for a penny
and a crust of bread
and a blanket

for his frozen legs.
.
~October 31, 2015

NITCHEVO

Somewhere
there
is something

waiting

for someone without
eyes to hear,
ears to see,
hands to taste;

without a within
or a heart to pump
blood to his feet,
his toes, his teeth.

Somewhere
there
is nothing

left of something
left behind
by blackbirds
flying nowhere

(do you hear me, nowhere)

is there anything left
or right of the somewhere
from where

nothing comes.

~ October 26, 2015
._____________________________________________________
.
**NOTE: In Russian, the word Nitchevo (ничего) means “nothing” or “nothingness.”

GONE BEYOND

A wetness
washes down
the crumbs of death,

of passing
from one side
to the other
of the river

Styx.

Kairon or St. Peter,
it makes no difference
to the ferry
who directs it,

or the fishes
eating bread crumbs
from the hands
of passengers
who crowd it.

It’s all the same to Samael
whom he transports from
one side to the other
of the River Styx.

It’s all the same, all the same.

Only the name changes,
only the face changes,
only the place changes.

It’s all the same to the river,
whom it carries from
one side to the other.

         Gahtay gahtay, para gahtay
parasamgahtay, Bodi svaha

Going, going; going on beyond,
always going on beyond,
always becoming Buddha.

          Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih Shantih Shantih

GIRL STANDING ALONE: A Found Poem

1. ORGINAL TWITTER TWEET:

к๑๑ℓт๑α∂ @pari_tweets Oct 22
@Doadosh @FriedriceJi @SARUN_FANCLUB I met her on 6.10.2015 before finale day on jhalak sets when she was doing her technical rehearsals.

2. AS TREATED BY L.G. COREY:

I met her
on
6.10.2015

before finale day

on jhalak sets
when she was doing

her
          technical

                           rehearsals.
..
~October 24, 2015

DEJA VEUX

       “God speaks . . . but not one listens.” (Job 33:14-15)

Handprints
on the walls of time;

footprints
in dead riverbeds;

everything converges,
everything conspires to converge,
at the center of the cyclone,

in the pinpoint of the whirlwind

where God speaks,
and Job pretends to listen.

But no one listens.

God speaks in dreams,
but no one listens.

No one listens to the visions
coming in the night
when men are asleep in their beds,

and dreams are asleep
in their graves.

and eyes are asleep
in the deep.
.

A THEORY OF EVERYTHING

everything
is nothing
becoming something
else besides

a wink and a nod
from Peter Pan
down the rabbit hole

and out the other side.

everything
is nothing else
than cigarette butts
waiting to be tossed
to hungry ravens

feeding on the corpse

of a dead poet
digging for truffles
for the gourmand
and his lady-friend

groping each other
under the table
whilst they giggle
over canapés.

everything is everywhere
in this house of horrors
where the plaster falls
from flaking ceilings
into our hair

and down the backside
of a hungry corpse
digging for truffles
in the graves of dead poets

surrounded by ravens.

STATIONS OF THE CROSSING

A broken wineglass,
underfoot,
slices the soles
of thirsty pilgrims.

Blood to blood
attracts the condors
from high places
hiding

in the clouds of glory,
chaos and darkness
and the spirit of God

lurking over the waters.

We shall be late
for breakfast, lunch and dinner
at this pace.

At this pace,
we shall be late
and lose our place in line
before the Keeper of the Gate
who quotes the dogs who plainly state,

“You may not enter
because you ate our portion,”

and stamps our hand in blood
collected from the feet of pilgrims

walking on the broken glass
of unchained brides and grooms,

floating out to sea.
.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET by L.G. Corey

I’m glad I’ve inspired you. Thanks for letting me know I did. My fondest hope is to leave the world having inspired a new generation of poets to think about writing poetry in a new way.

Poetry is useless if it’s to be any good. Poetry is about the poem, not the poet or the reader. Such “useless” poetry — tied, as it is, to the infinite — is immortal. Poetry tied to the poet, dies with him.

My own poetry is about nothing, without meaning, having no purpose or agenda other than itself. It comes not from me or the world, but from itself, by itself.

For me, writing poetry is a surrender of the ego to the unknown. Not many understand this — particularly, of course, those who immediately need to let me know they already do. But, in time, perhaps they will.