Manifesto of the Damned

There is a method to my ---
Find this one if you can
and then leave it. With a plain
wooden bucket, and a longing
mirrored in shadows.

This monologic frag
      Piece of a dream

speculates on nothing
commentates on no thing.
We aspire to do this low art
because the high art is beyond us.
Come to a poem with expectations,
and leave with unfufilled longings.

Poiema or poietes? Which then,
if I asked you
is more important?

--And if these reflections confuse
they are, after all, reflections--

So, in the attempt to become
scholarly and look intelligent to
our Good Friends and Closest Collegues,
we begin to write--
such drivel, and fill pages and pages
(boxes in boxes (words within words)
reflections (mirrors in the funhouse))
with parenthetical notations which
eat themselves in an endless
recursion of Ego Masturbation.

They are not reflections they are fragments
and they eat up the world

It is those moments when an honest
person writes to a loved one and
we would look at it and probably say,
"Oh this is truly horrible."
(And it would certainly validate our claims,
to art, to inspiration, to fame)
Yes, it is those moments that are
more magnificent than any of our technical craft.
How clever we feel, cleaving these
shallow little graves
with tiny little rhymes.

It is not that we want to
it is that we have to and,
if you asked any one of us
it would come out the same:

This horror stems not from outside
but from within.
That sleeping space which few see
and there the demons bark,
ever wanting more and never heeding
desperate pleas, and
If you throw a bone I'll eat it gladly
and sleep on your porch dreaming
of rabbits, and the days when
you were a stranger
and I was a poet
or maybe just a fool.